


The Tension and The Terror

by mktellstales



Series: Archived Work: 2013-2015 [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cancer, Character Death, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-04
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 04:23:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 24,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2255745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mktellstales/pseuds/mktellstales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I don't want to hear sentimental words come from your mouth, because that's going to make this real. And I'm not ready for this to be real, Sherlock."<br/>John felt any strength he had left in him wash away, and he collapsed into Sherlock's arms.<br/>"I'm not ready." he whispered into the fabric of Sherlock's shirt.<br/>Sherlock stood there, feeling the weight of John in his arms, and unsure of what to do. This wasn't his area; John was the one who comforted, and Sherlock wasn't ready for it to be real either.<br/>He hesitated, and then wrapped his arms around John, and felt him slump even further into his body, and hold on tighter. </p><p>Warning: This is going to be a sad one. Don't let that scare you away, just be aware of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John loved the way that Sherlock felt above him. He loved the way that the muscles in his back contracted and constricted against the palm of his hands as he rolled his hips and thrust into him. John loved the way that sweat collected around his hairline, making his curls damp and stick to the sides of his face. He also loved the sweat that created a sheen across his chest. John loved the soft breaths that escaped from between his lips, and the long, low moans that slid up from his throat.  John loved the sloppy, sideways kisses Sherlock left at the corners of his mouth, and he loved that when Sherlock came, it was with an arch to his back, and a chant of John's name to a non-existent God. He loved that, after a moment to catch his breath, Sherlock would stay inside of him, wrap his hand around his cock, and bring John off with whispered words of encouragement.  And he loved that when they were both spent, Sherlock collapsed onto him, and gently mouthed at John's adams apple.

"That...was-bloody fantastic." John said, carding his fingers through Sherlock's hair. Sherlock was limp on top of him, and he sighed in contentment at the satiation that was washing over both of them.

"Mmm,  give it a few minutes, and I'll do it again." Sherlock said, his mouth still absently taking the bob in John’s throat in between his lips.

"Oh no. I have already come twice tonight."

"But, John-"

"No. I have no more orgasms for you."

Sherlock lifted his head, and turned his lips up in a positively devilish grin. "But I have more for you."

"Oh God, Sherlock. You are too much."

The smile on Sherlock's face quickly faded, and turned down into a frown, and his eyes lost a bit of their later as he looked seriously at John, and asked; "Am I?"

John immediately felt like hitting himself over the head. Sherlock was a cocky bastard, that much was true, but cocky didn’t mean that he wasn’t insecure, that he didn’t entertain the thoughts that the people who had been calling him freak for most of his life had put into his head.

"I didn't mean it like that.” John said, softly.  “I was speaking strictly in a sexual sense. Me, over forty; you still enjoying your thirties."

"You're forty one, John. That’s hardly middle aged.”

"And you're 37; just."

"Yes. Tonight, in fact, and I would very much like to come again.” Sherlock snaked his hand between their bodies; and tickled his fingers at the trail of hair that started just below John’s belly button.

“Do you think that you could give that to me John? Please?" He asked.

"You damn well know that I'll give you anything you want."

John rolled Sherlock off from on top of him, easily switching their positions. He straddled his legs over Sherlock's waist, creating a warm pocket of friction. Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed in response. He was in no rush, nor was Sherlock. John worked slow, his hands rubbing along Sherlock’s chest, his eyes roaming over the sharp features of his face.

John couldn't help but take a moment as he gently rocked back and forth to think about how Sherlock Holmes was underneath him; naked, covered in goose pimples from drying sweat and semen.  How Sherlock Holmes had given him two orgasms in two hours, and how Sherlock Holmes had just been begging for John to give him his fourth. If you had asked him a year ago, John would never had said that he even imagined being where he was now. Well, no; he had imagined it, but he never believed it would become truth.

It hadn't happened exactly when John left Mary. There was no way that it could have. John had wounds, deep wounds from both the wife who had betrayed him and the best friend who couldn't stop protecting him. No matter what the cost. But when it did happen, when John could no longer hold back everything he wanted to give Sherlock and everything he wanted to take from him, it hit like a fault line splitting the earth open.

Sherlock did not give his heart away easily, but John Watson seemed to have possession of it, along with everything else that came along with the madman. Of course, if you were to ask Sherlock, and if he were to deign to be sentimental, he would say that he never gave his heart away, but rather John had stolen it.

"Oh John, you have no idea how good you feel against me." Sherlock purred, rolling his hips in rhythm with John.

"If  It's half as good as you feel, you should be in absolute bliss by now."

" _Oohh-ngnhh_. I don't need much more."

Sherlock lifted his hips off the bed, and grounded himself particularly hard into John. John dug his thumbs into Sherlock's waist, holding the lower half of his body suspended in the air.

"You are amazing, Sherlock- fucking, bloody amazing.  Come for me."

Sherlock let out a low, lazy roar, and spilled himself onto John's stomach and up on his chest. John collapsed, half on the bed, and half on Sherlock.

"Think you can spare a fifth?" He asked.

"Oh, God no. I'm done."

John laughed, and Sherlock giggled right along with him, wrapping his arms around John in the same possessive manner has he lived his life. Their laughter died off, and they started to give into the exhaustion that had been chasing them for hours.

John thought about getting up to at least give them a perfunctory wipe down with a flannel, but he was too warm, too comfortable; too tired.

He nuzzled himself into Sherlock’s shoulder, and left a kiss there.

"Happy Birthday, Sherlock."

Sherlock only responded with a distant _hmmm_ , having found sleep faster than John.

John smiled, and, he too drifted off.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's shorter than I would have liked, but it's a good place to stop, and had I continued on with what is now chapter three, it would have gotten too long!
> 
> Read!  
> Enjoy!  
> Comment and come back for more!

John had gotten used to waking up alone in the fifteen months he had been sharing a bed with Sherlock. He understood the absolute restless nature that flooded his body and his mind. He also enjoyed having a few moments to himself to stretch out across the mattress, and tangle his feet around the blankets. Sherlock tended to spread out in his sleep, taking up most of the space, and John still found that he slept like a soldier; rigid and on his back- ready to jump at a moment's notice. So, he enjoyed just sprawling along the sheets like a lazy house cat.

John savoured in the stretch of his ligaments another minute before he pushed away the covers and padded into the bathroom. He went about his morning ritual of a shower and a shave, and a thorough brushing of his teeth. He returned into the bedroom, opened the drawer in Sherlock's dresser that he now kept his pants inside of, slipped them on, and opened the wardrobe to pull off his favourite pair of faded jeans and a gray t-shirt he sometimes used for sleeping.

He left the bedroom, walked down the hallway, and found Sherlock quietly at work at the dining room table. Sherlock had recently, when not on a case, or maintaining an experiment, started making scale models of buildings, rooms and landmarks in London; beautiful pieces made out of wood, and painted meticulously. Once he had them assembled, and pristine enough for an art gallery, he would then turn them into crime scenes of a far more gruesome and interesting nature than either of them had seen. It was quaint in the most Sherlock of ways.

John dropped a kiss on top of Sherlock's head and smiled at Sherlock's soft grunt of a response. He filled the kettle and popped it on to boil.

"What's this one then?" John asked of the newest scene.

 

"Hanging in Central station." Sherlock answered.

 

"Ahh. Lovely."

John picked up the empty mug sitting next to Sherlock on the table, and dropped a fresh tea bag into it. He poured the boiling water over the bag, and repeated the same sequence with a mug he had brought down from the cupboard. He pulled the sugar container from the back of the countertop, spooned a frankly sickening amount sugar into Sherlock’s mug, and went to the fridge for the milk, which he splashed into both mugs, and then took the bags out, binned them and gently tempered the liquid back and forth.

When he was finally finished, he set the navy and green striped mug back down next to Sherlock’s hand. He didn’t thank him, but rather picked it up, and pursed his lips together to blow over the rim, wafting steam into the air, and take a cautionary sip. Having found it to his satisfaction, evident by him not tossing it into the sink, he set the mug back down.

John laughed to himself and shook his head. “I suppose I should do the shopping then today.” he mused to himself.

“Dull.”

“Well, yes, it’s not the most exciting thing, but we’re nearly out of milk, and jam, and bread- and pretty much everything.”

Sherlock waved his hand in John’s general direction, dismissing John’s concern over the amount of food in their flat.

From somewhere in the flat, Sherlock’s phone started to ring.

"Mobile, John.” Sherlock said, not looking up from the small piece of flat wood he was painting. “It's Lestrade with a new case."

John padded out of the kitchen and into the sitting room, shuffling papers and lifting up blankets he had never seen before, following the ring.

"How could you possibly know that? It could be Mycroft, or- well, it could be Mycroft."

"It's not. He never sends a text until after he's had his lunch and tea. Unless of course it's of importance, but had it been,I would have heard from him by now. Likely he would have stopped over."

John gave Sherlock his usual look that said, brilliant, amazing bastard, and Sherlock smiled, taking his mobile from John's hand.

"Also there was a story on BBC1 this morning about a rather unfortunate kidnapping. The information was leaked from someone in their division. Lestrade thought he had a handle on it, but , as usual, he did not." Sherlock had opened his phone and was already typing out a response to Lestrade.

"He doesn't normally do kidnappings." John said, sipping on his tea.

"No, but it had the same MO as a kidnapping right murder he solved last month. Even put a man in jail. He should have called me then." Sherlock slipped his phone into the pocket of his dressing gown, and jumped from the chair he had been sitting on. “We’ll leave in seven minutes, John.”

 **  
**John smiled, and set his mug down in the sink. He went into the sitting room and reached for his shoes by the door. Sherlock came out from their bedroom, dressed and led the way down the stairs where he handed John his jacket, and then swung his own over his shoulders, slipping his arms in effortlessly, and tying his scarf swiftly around his neck.

 

John held the front door open for Sherlock to slide through, and he couldn’t help but smile at the sight of his one and only Consulting Detective as he followed behind.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) There are mentions of sexual abuse in this chapter, so if that's bothersome for you; skip passed it.  
> 2) I am TERRIBLE at cases- just terrible. And being in the middle of a Criminal Minds marathon did not help me the way I thought it would. But, it was important that this happened.
> 
> Read.  
> Enjoy!  
> Comment! (They keep me going when I'm not so sure I should)

The scene when they arrived was chaos. Not the amount of police on the scene, no, that was rather low, but the scene itself was full of clothes, and crockery, and books spilled from a half downed shelf.

"There was quite the struggle." John said.

Sherlock nodded his head and made a grunt of confirmation, already assessing the room as Lestrade walked up to them.

"Thank you for coming." He said, his hands running through his silver, gray hair.

"If you had done your job right the first time, we wouldn't be here."

"Sherlock." John chided, digging his elbow into the man's side.

"No. He's right. Sherlock offered, and I said no. I was so sure that I had the right guy."

Sherlock had already walked away, so Lestrade was more or less just taking to John. Sherlock walked around the edges of the mess. He bent down, pushing his coat from his way to inspect bits and pieces of the evidence.

"Was the first crime scene like this?" He asked.

"No. It was very ordered and neat.”

Lestrade handed a manilla file folder over to Sherlock, and he started to leaf through the photos and the reports.

“The woman, Kelly O'Donell left without any struggle, and there was no forced entry, so we assumed that she knew her attacker. The man we arrested was a friend of her brothers; been infatuated with her for years."

"And when he killed her?"

"Three days later."

"Had she been sexually assaulted?"

"No. Cut up and beat. I think that was enough."

"A man obsessed with her kidnapped her, cut her and beat her, but he didn't rape her? Seems a bit odd don't you think?"

“Why do you think this is the same?" John asked after looking through the file Sherlock passed on to him.

"Same neighborhood, same type; same love note left behind."

“But this one put up a fight."

“No. She didn't." Sherlock said.

"Sherlock. Look at it in here."

"I am. There's no blood on any of these corners, none on the floor. The dishes are broken in a way that's consistent with throwing them straight down, not being flung from flailing arms. And the wear pattern from their feet against the carpet is even. She left willingly, and the kidnapper made it look as though there was a struggle."

"So, it wouldn't be tied to the first kidnapping since the man responsible was already in jail."

"Yes."

"But he left a note again. Is he stupid?" Lestrade asked.

"Probably. But he's also obsessive. Tracks-mud tracks leading in. It's only been raining the last forty two minutes, so, he came back, and left the note. He didn't want to- he knew that it would get back to him, but he needed to."

Sherlock turned on his feet, his coat swirling around him.

"I'll take the files back to the flat. I've seen all I need here. I'll text you when I've found a connection between the two victims."

He bounded to the door, and John followed behind him. Sherlock flagged down a cab, and got inside.

"We're not going back to the flat, are we?" John asked, sliding next to Sherlock in the cab.

"Don't be daft; of course we aren't"

"Alright. How did you know where she was?"

"The mud. Bits and pieces of river rock. He brought her to the river, left her, and came back to leave his note."

"You do realize the Thames covers a rather large area?"

"He'll need shelter for them; someplace away from the shipyard and the docks and the city so no one can hear what he's doing to her. There's an abandoned warehouse near the docks, but far enough away you go unnoticed. We're going there."

"Brilliant."

"I know."

Sherlock, of course, had been right about the warehouse, and right about the suspect being inside with the victim.

"You're going to call Lestrade, correct?"

“I've sent him a text. He's on his way."

"But you're going in anyway?"

"Of course I am."

It didn't take much more than Sherlock's mere presence in the warehouse for the suspect to drop the blade in his hands and make a run for it. John went in as they ran out, and untied the woman, took the tape off from her mouth, and smoothed away the hair stuck to the sweat, mud and blood on her forehead. It was just as he heard the sirens over her relieved sobs that he also heard Sherlock yell, and a splash from the river just outside the door.

"Oh, bloody hell."

He left the victim with an approaching officer. He didn't remember his name, but he had seen his face before, and he ran to the still splashing noise.

"Sherlock!"

He watched Sherlock's curls go underneath the dark water. Why did everything always happen at night? He waited what felt like an eternity, but was likely just thirty seconds before Sherlock's head came back up, and he was gasping for air.

Sherlock and the suspect were caught in each other's arms, each trying to pull the other under. One would disappear, and the other would climb on top. John threw his jacket off, and jumped in as well.

He pried the suspect off from Sherlock, and twisted his hands behind his back, bringing him into the shore, and straight to Lestrade' s cuffs, and turned on his heels to Sherlock, doubled over on his knees and expelling the river water he had swallowed in.

"Don't you ever do that again, Sherlock!" John yelled,  

"Oh, please John. I've done far worse than that before."

"You shouldn't do any of it!"

"It's what I do-it's what you do! Do you not remember the bullet that grazed your arm just three months ago? My jumping into the Thames was nothing compared to that stunt!"

"You nearly drowned!"

"But I didn't!  I am fine."

John knotted his fists at his sides. He loved Sherlock, he absolutely did, and he understood that Sherlock would do anything -- anything -- that needed to be done for a case without any regard to his own life (though always with regard to John’s), but knowing that Sherlock was always a breath away from doing something incredibly stupid, didn’t make it any easier to accept when he did.

And no, John was not innocent of making stupid decisions when it came to a case, or rather, when it came to Sherlock. He had let himself get shot in the arm, and he did just jump into the river after Sherlock without the slightest hesitation, because that was what John did.

He inhaled several times, uneven and shallow through his nose before finding an even pattern, and slowly unclenching his fists, letting them fall flat against his thighs.

“You’re not going to be fine tomorrow. Neither of us will be.”

He slipped his hand into Sherlock’s and tugged him into his body.

"Let's get you home into a shower before you catch your death."

"Yes. I can feel the bacteria seeping into my pores."

John laughed, and they started walking next to each other in a matching stride to find a main road to catch a cab from.

“You’ll need a shower as well.” Sherlock said, subtly raising an eyebrow at John.

“Yes, I suppose that I will.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two in one day, because this chapter was pretty much done already!
> 
> Read!  
> Enjoy!  
> Comment!  
> Come back for More!

The sniffling, and the sneezing managed to stay away for most of the night, leaving John and Sherlock time to lazily shower together, share a cup of tea together, and then undress each other from the pyjamas they had only gotten into an hour earlier, and lie tangled together in limbs and sheets.

Memorizing Sherlock’s body had been easier than John thought it would be. He had remembered bits and pieces of past lover’s bodies; if he closed his eyes right then, he probably could conjure them up again if need be, but he never knew them the way that he knew Sherlock.

He knew that if he blew hot, delicate breath across Sherlock’s abdomen, it would ripple in an effort to pull itself away and closer at the same time. He knew that if he brushed a knuckle along Sherlock’s thigh, he would twist his body to the left, and grind his heel down into the mattress. John knew that if his lips followed the beautiful thin trail of dark wisps down into the patch of unruly pubic hair, Sherlock would close his eyes, and arch his head just the slightest bit off from the pillow, and part his lips to let out a quiet, desperate breath.

They didn’t always need to penetrate, suck, or even come. Some nights, all that they needed was the affirmation that one was still there with the other. John needed to touch Sherlock, and hear all of the ways he could make the strongest, most in control man he had ever met, come undone, and Sherlock, in turn, needed to be touched, and reminded that he wasn’t a machine; wasn’t the sum of the parts of his mind, but that he was human - - he was John’s.

So, they lied there, waiting for the inevitable sickness to creep in, and just touched. Sherlock licked at the depression in John’s chest where his ribcage separated, and his inner organs were segmented into their proper compartments. His hair tickled at his chin, and John laughed, running his finger through the curls in an attempt to keep them at bay, and as an excuse to feel the soft tangle he loved so much. Their fingers laced and re-laced, their lips slowly opened and closed over the other’s. They whispered non-sensical words, and affirmations of love.

And eventually, their eyes grew tired, their breath shortened, and they fell asleep, John giving his most admirable attempt at being the big spoon.

It wasn’t long before dawn was starting to approach that the coughing started; first in John; his immune system less than it used to be thanks to his infection from a wartime field surgery. It woke him up with a start; rumbling from deep within his chest. His body already ached as he slid out from the tangle he had managed to get himself into with the sheets.

He quietly padded into the bathroom, and opened the mirrored cabinet. There was one pack of paracetomal, and he popped out just one to swallow down with a glass of water. It would only be a matter of time before Sherlock woke, and when Sherlock was sick, well, if John were to put it gently; when Sherlock was sick he was a terror straight from the farthest depths of hell sent to torture John.

And as if on cue, as if John could have bet money on it (had he still been a gambling man), he heard his name, drawled out from within the darkness of the bedroom. He laughed, and then thought better of it for the way it made his head ache. He filled the glass with more cold water, and took the blister pack of pills with him.

Sherlock had the sheets clutched up into his neck, and he was shivering despite the sweat that had broken out above his brow.

“I know Sherlock-” he said through another cough, “And I’m very much going to tell you, I told you so.”

“Oh, a doctor knew we would get sick after spending some time in the freezing cold and dirty river? How have they not given you a Nobel Prize yet?” Sherlock snapped back.

“Do you want this medicine or not?”

“Yes.”

“Then I suggest you be a little bit nicer to me. Now sit up, and take this.”

John popped out another pill, and set it in Sherlock’s outstretched palm. Sherlock threw it into his mouth and swallowed it with a gulp of water before settling back down into his cocoon.

“Come back to bed.” he mumbled against the pillows, and John set down his things on the bedside table.

There were things that they would need;  tissues, thermometer, hand sanitizer, and hot tea. But John was so tired, and so achy. He decided that his doctoring could wait until the morning, and crawled in next to Sherlock.

The first two days of their cold, they spent wrapped in more blankets than strictly necessary, sweating through the material as they wished and willed their fevers to break. They took turns sleeping haphazardly against each other, and they read through the books on the bottom shelf of the nightstand.

John often woke in the middle of the night, if not from his couch from Sherlock’s whine and a shaking of his shoulders. it didn’t matter than John too felt like death, Sherlock needed his pillow flipped over to the cool side, he needed his blanket tucked underneath his feet, he needed another lozenge for his throat; he needed his mobile so that he could send Mycroft annoying text messages. His tea had gone cold. because he fell asleep before he could drink it, his toast wasn’t toasty enough. The list of things Sherlock needed was endless, and John tended to every one of them.

That wasn’t to say that John didn’t wake to a hot cup of tea one afternoon, or that he hadn’t fallen asleep to Sherlock reading a chapter from a French poetry book he had. John was almost certain that he was drifting in and out of consciousness one early morning, Sherlock was massaging his fingertips into his shoulders.

After the initial symptoms faded in their intensity, and their fevers were finally under thirty eight degrees John threw their blankets into the wash, and they set up a kind of camp in the sitting room. They didn’t move much other than to make tea and toast and to heat up the chicken noodle soup Mrs. Hudson had brought up. They mostly stuck to their respective chairs, their feet teasing against each other in the space between. Sherlock yelled through several crap telly shows before John gave up, turned it off and buried his head in his laptop. trying to catch up on the client emails they had been ignoring, and updating his blog.

On the fifth day of the sickness, Sherlock’s fever broke completely, and he ate more in one sitting of breakfast than he had in the last three weeks. By the afternoon he was back to painting jeans and a t-shirt on his hanging victim in the kitchen. It took John another day and a half before his fever was gone for good, and before he could stomach anything other than the soup and a cup of lemon tea. After a full week of rest, he was feeling a bit more like himself, as normal as he supposed that he could, and so he went back to work at the clinic, and set up meetings with prospective clients.

It was difficult to overcome a cold when you were surrounded by sick people, and even more difficult when you’re sleep was interrupted by a beautiful madman talking out loud to himself, thinking he was talking to you, about case details. And there wasn’t even any reason to mention how difficult it became to shake a cold when you ran around some of the more questionable alleyways and streets London had to offer.

John was tired, often out of breath, and not nearly close to being on his usual game. He even had to sit out a case, because he hadn’t quite recovered from the last. He supposed that old age was finally creeping up on him.

**  
  
  
  
  
**


	5. Chapter 5

John woke up on the sofa; he barely even remembered falling asleep the night before. His head ached and his throat was sore. His shoulder hurt, but that really was nothing new, and the rest of his muscles were furious at the position he had curled into underneath the old afghan. The flat was quiet, too quiet, and he knew that he was alone.

He sat up, and made himself some tea. The kitchen was in the same state it was last night when John was watching television and Sherlock was at the table working on an experiment. He checked the time on the clock on the wall; it was relatively early, so wherever Sherlock went, he couldn’t have been gone long.

John found his mobile on the coffee table to find a message waiting to be opened.

_Mycroft had an issue he wanted to annoy me with. You were asleep. SH_

John sent a message back.

_I hope you at least kissed me goodbye. JW_

_I may have brushed my lips against your forehead.  SH_

_Sentimental fool. JW_

_I won’t tell anyone if you don’t. SH_

John smiled, and went about drinking the rest of his tea. He showered, and let the steam work into the knots of his muscles, and clear up his sinus passage. He dressed, and sat down to read the paper, surprised Sherlock had even bothered to bring it inside. He was halfway through the police blotter when a cough rattled up out of nowhere.

That was it. He had to do something about his cold.

_My damn cold isn't getting any better. Going to see Sarah and get a script. JW_

_Pick up milk on your way home. SH_

_And latex gloves SH_

_Why do- No. Don’t tell me. JW_

_Love you. JW_

_I love you, too. SH_

John slipped his phone into the pocket of his jeans, and put on his shoes. He locked the door to the flat, and slid into his coat down at the bottom of the steps.

Sarah’s schedule was, thankfully, rather light, and John only had to wait twenty minutes, and one patient to see her. She was still as attractive as ever in her white professional shirt, and her gray skirt with her hair pulled back behind her ears. If things had been different, she might have been the one that he would fight to keep.

“So, what brings you in here today, John?” she asked, when they got into the back exam room.

“Really, I just need a script for something a bit stronger than over the counter to get this cold off my back.”

“How long have you had it?”

“Been a bit over a week now. Sherlock decided to take an evening dip in the Thames. I decided to follow him in.”

Sarah laughed, “Always getting you into trouble, that one.”

“But I’m never bored.” he countered, with a smile.

"Well.” Sarah said with an exaggerated sigh,”unless, you're cheating on me with another doctor, it's been a while since you've had a full exam, yea?"

“Yes, it has, but I don't really need one.  I just can't shake this cold; the combination of oncoming middle age and a life with Sherlock Holmes was bound to catch up with me , eventually."

"Whatever your age and lifestyle, you're a healthy man, John. You should be over this by now."

"Sarah, really."

"No arguments. Now roll up your sleeve."

John looked at her for a moment, and then rolled his eyes in acquiescence of her request, and did as he was told.

Sarah went on with her rather thorough examination; taking John's blood pressure, listening to his heart and his lungs, testing his reflexes, and drawing more blood than John was sure he had in his body.

"Why all the blood?” he asked.

“Just going to run some standard tests.” she smiled, as she pressed a piece of gauze into the crook of his elbow, and placed a bandage over it. “Be lucky I’m not pushing for a prostate exam.”

“Oh, I do thank you for that.”

She laughed, “Well, I think that just about does it. I’ll write you the script, and give you a call if there’s anything strange in your tests.”

“Thank you.”

John jumped down from the exam table, and waited near her desk and she scribbled out a prescription for him. He took it from her hand with a gentle smile, and slipped back into his coat. He left the clinic and walked down the block to the chemist, got his prescription and caught the tube just as it was leaving back to the Baker Street station. He got milk at the corner store, and the gloves that Sherlock needed.

He got back to the flat and upstairs. After toeing off his shoes and leaving them near the door, he took one of the pills and went into the bathroom.

"Christ, is this thing still bleeding?”  he asked himself.

John took the cotton and the tape off from the inside of his elbow and tossed it into the bin. The pin- sized hole wasn't bleeding as much as it had when Sarah jabbed him, but it still was producing fresh blood wich it should have clotted before he even got into the tube to go home. He supposed that all the medication he had been taking, and his lowered immune system was just starting to take a toll on his body more than he thought.

"Dinner tonight?" Sherlock’s voice came from just outside the bathroom door that connected to their bedroom, interrupting John’s thoughts. He didn’t even realize that was home.

John looked up from the angry looking marks in his veins to catch Sherlock's reflection in the mirror. He was in his usual dark trousers and a light green button down with the standard two top buttons undone. His hair was just on the right side of messy, and though their was nothing special about the way he looked compared to any other day, John suddenly found him the most beautiful he had ever been. He smiled into the mirror, and nodded his head.

"Dinner would be nice." he said.

"Good. Leave in an hour.”

“What did Mycroft want this morning?”

Sherlock shrugged, “A case he wanted to pawn off on me. Just some basic embezzling; nothing interesting.”

“Did you take it?”

“I said I would consider it.”

“So, you’ll let him think you’re going to do it for a few days and then tell him you aren’t interested?”

Sherlock smiled, “That was my plan.”

John pushed away from the sink and turned around so that he was face to flesh with Sherlock. He pressed his lips against Sherlock’s cheek, and a smiled, “I love you.”

“Mmm, yes, I know you do.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy this!
> 
> Things are about to get real.

There were hundreds of restaurants they could go to in London, and there were at least ten within walking distance of the flat, but they always seemed to find themselves at Angelo’s in the booth by the window with a bottle of 2002 Vintage Tunina Winemaker’s Blend. Sherlock didn’t generally like blends; he was more of a single varietal kind of man, but on a whim they had tried it (at John’s insistence he couldn't drink another glass of cabernet without needing to slap someone across the face), and it had quickly become a favorite of the both of them.

“Sherlock, would you ever consider marriage?” John asked, running his finger along the rim of his wine glass, and hoping the blush he felt along his neck was from the alcohol and not the question.  

“No.” he answered quickly.

“I didn’t think so.” John smiled, and took a bite of his asparagus, trying to hide the disappointment he knew was etched into every line on his face with slower than necessary chewing.

He. of course, knew that it was useless as he sat there and felt Sherlock’s eyes roam over him, and then spoke quietly.

“John-”

“Don’t worry about it; it was a stupid question that I already knew the answer to.”“I don’t want to not marry you, because I don’t love you enough for that kind of commitment. If anything, it’s the opposite. I’ve seen unhappy marriages; cheating, lying, murder. And you, you’re one half of a failed marriage yourself, so you should know better than anyone the ridiculous expectations that marriage places on people; like proving your love to the rest of the world day after day. I don’t need that, and neither do you-”

“But you’ve seen happy marriages as well.” John said, reaching across the table and placing his hand over Sherlock’s. “Your parents are happy.”

“My family has always been a bit exceptional.” Sherlock took a drink from his glass, “Were yours happy?”

“Yes, they were.”

John took a moment to think about his parents. They died when he was fifteen. Harry was eighteen, and she did the best that she could to raise her little brother, but no one should have that responsibility, and her best proved to not be good enough. Harry went to her first stay in rehab and John went to live with their Aunt and Uncle in Edinburgh for a while; until he left for Uni.

But that wasn’t what John wanted to think about. He wanted to think about life before the accident. He wanted to remember the way his dad used to spin his mum around in the kitchen, and kiss her until she was red in the face and breathless. He wanted to remember how his mum tucked his dad in when he fell asleep on the couch with with afghan that he now used to do the very same thing to Sherlock. John wanted to remember wanting, more than anything, a love like they had.         

Sherlock’s smile, and his hand reaching across to his own, broke John’s spell, “Well, Watson’s are exceptional as well.” he said.

John smiled, and squeezed Sherlock’s hand before letting it go and bringing it back to the fork resting on his plate. They both went back to their meal and to their wine and left, paying far more than the cheque would have been had they ever been given one. When they got back home, they barely made it up the stairs and into the flat before they were all over each other like a pair of teenagers.

They kissed their way into the bedroom, managing to kick their shoes off, and stood; snogging.

“You are-” John dipped his head down and nipped at the thin skin of Sherlock’s throat, “so sexy. Do you have any idea at all how mad you drive me just by existing?” **  
**

Sherlock sighed, and dug his nails into the fabric of John’s jumper, pulling him in closer. John sucked harder at his skin, bruising his mark all along Sherlock’s pulse point.

“You’re perfect; through and through.”

“You know I’m not.” Sherlock said, breathless; his lips brushing against the soft hair on John’s head.

“You’re perfect to me. Isn’t that all that matters?”

“Yes, John. It is.”

Sherlock pulled John;s face up to his own and braced him with a desperate, deep kiss. John had had several relationships that had made it to, if not passed the mark he and Sherlock were at, including his marriage with Mary. This was the time when things started to change, and the heat and the passion started to fade away. He had justified it as falling into comfortable complacency, had accepted that he just needed to work a little harder to show his love. But with Sherlock, every moment was new, even when it was old. Their desire for one another didn't seem to be waning, but constantly growing.

"What do you want tonight?" John asked, with a whisper into Sherlock's ear.

"Anything, as long as it's you."

"Undress and lie down."

Sherlock nodded, and backed away. John watched him unbutton each button of his shirt, and watched it fall open little by little. John reached his hands out to undo the cuffs, and tug the shirt from inside Sherlock's trousers. He finished the buttons for him and slipped it down Sherlock's shoulders and his arms until it feel down to the rug below their feet.

John stood back again, and let Sherlock unzip the fly off his trousers, and step out of each leg. John stopped him from pulling at the waistband of his black underwear. He took Sherlock's hand and led him to the bed, laid him down on top of the neatly made duvet, and put each of his arms over his head.

He reached underneath the mattress on one side, bringing up a hidden strap. He did the same on the other side, and wrapped Sherlock's wrists in the fine, dark silk cuffs attached to the straps. He reached to the bedside table, opened the drawer, and felt around until he found what he wanted. He took out their nearly empty bottle of lube, making a mental note to pick up more next thing he went for the shopping, and he also pulled out a satin mask.

Sherlock's breath hitched just at the sight of it. John grinned, and lifted Sherlock's head to slip the band over his curls, and slide the mask over his eyes.

"I'll be right back." He said, leaving Sherlock with a kiss to the temple.

John left the bedroom, and walked down the hall into the kitchen. He took a glass down from the cupboard and filled it with ice from the tray in the freezer. He also grabbed the jar of honey from the counter and the stir stick next to it. He returned to the bedroom, and stopped in the doorway for a moment, his breath nearly knocked out of him at the sight of Sherlock strapped down to their bed, his eyes covered. He was so open and vulnerable, and trusting.

His chest was flush, and it creeped up along his neck. His breathing was already uneven in anticipation of what John was going to do. A great deal of Sherlock’s deductions, and his ever running mind and senses was his sense of sight. He couldn’t look at anything without mentally scanning everything about it, and that included John; that included making love to John. The blindfold was a way for Sherlock to forget his compulsion to know, and to hand over his control to someone else.

John couldn't remember the last time he had seen Sherlock look so god damned beautiful...except for the last time he had looked at him...two minutes earlier.

“John?”

He sounded so needy, and so desperate.

“I’m here, Sherlock.” John said, walking into the room, and setting the cup and the jar on the nightstand as quietly as he could.

He put a few of the ice cubes into his mouth, and let the heat from his tongue melt them away as he undressed himself down to his pants. He put a few more ice cubes in, and pressed his knees into the mattress at the end of the bed, and walked himself in between Sherlock’s legs. He laid his body flat against his, and waited until the last of the ice melted before capturing Sherlock’s mouth with his.

Sherlock jumped at the sensation, John’s cold tongue seeked out the heat from Sherlock’s, and he deepened the kiss, raising his body off from Sherlock, and pressing his hands firmly into the mattress next to his head, and sliding his knees into Sherlock’s crotch. He pressed his mouth down, hard and unrelenting. Sherlock fought against his restraints, knowing full well he wasn’t going to get out of them, and settled for using the freedom of his legs to hook underneath John’s knees and pull him back down against his body with a thud.

John’s mouth broke away from Sherlock’s, and he laughed. “Don’t make me tie up your feet too.” he said.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Keep it up, and I guess we’ll find out.”

Sherlock grinned, and John bent down to kiss him once more. He snaked his hands to the cuffs and undid each one and wrapped his fingers delicately around Sherlock’s wrists and brought his hands down to wrap around his neck.

Sherlock ran his hands down John’s shoulder blades, eagerly taking his moment to feel him.

“Turn over.” John whispered, pushing at Sherlock’s side.

He did, resting his head on a pillow, and bringing his arms back above his head for John to restrain him again.

He lifted himself back up and picked up the glass. He got up on his knees again and turned so that he was at Sherlock’s feet. He fished out an ice cube, and pressed it gently against the bottom of Sherlock’s left foot, running it from heel to toe. It melted against the heat of their skin, and soaked into the blanket below. John made it to Sherlock’s knee before it had disappeared completely and he replaced it with a new cube, but not before he stopped to blow across the cold, melting water spreading down Sherlock’s skin.

He smoothed more up along Sherlock’s thigh and over the hill of his arse; up his spine, across his neck, and then down the other side, all the way back down to his right foot. His whole body was covered in goosebumps and droplets of water by the time John had emptied the glass of it’s contents.

“Are you alright?” John asked.

“Y-yes.” Sherlock stammered out, his face buried into the pillow.

John was amazed at Sherlock’s ability to withstand an inhuman amount of foreplay and teasing. John could barely handle the few minutes of lovebites Sherlock liked liked to leave all over him before he was begging to be fucked. But Sherlock could lie for hours, shattering into an absolute mess of want and desire before he would even think of mentioning how much he needed John.

And sometimes John liked to take advantage of that.

He set the glass down and picked up the honey jar next. He stirred the stick around the sticky amber stuff and pulled it back out, swirling it around and around until it was tightly wound. He brought up to Sherlock, hovering just before his face.

“Do you know what I have?” he asked.

Sherlock sniffed, “The apricot honey you just bought.”

“Good. Do you want to taste some?”

“Yes.”

John pressed the stick up against Sherlock’s lips, and he darted his tongue out, lapping at it, and then swallowing it down.

“Is it good?”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders (as best he could with the limited arm movement he had), “The orange was a bit better.”

John laughed. “Is this maybe better?”

He set the stick into the glass the ice had been in and dipped his index finger into the honey. He brought that up to Sherlock’s lips and let him suck his finger into his mouth. Sherlock worked his tongue around John’s finger, cleaning the honey away from it while at the same time keeping his lips suctioned tightly. John closed his eyes and gave into the feeling, even long after the honey had disappeared, and pressed his middle finger in as well. Sherlock’s mouth was heaven, and it was a foolish man who took himself away from that.

Sherlock did eventually ease up, letting John’s fingers slip away. His lips were swollen and red, and sticky from honey and saliva. John craned his neck, and bent down as best he could to kiss him.

“Mmm, I love you.” he mumbled against Sherlock’s lips.

“I love you too.”

John situated himself between Sherlock’s legs once again, picked up the stick, and plunge it deep into the jar. He lifted it up, and held it above Sherlock, letting the honey drip down over his shoulders, and along his back. He drizzled a bit just above the cleft of his arse and then hastily put it all back on the table.

He started to lick at the path he had made; the sweet rush of the hiney cut down with the salty tang of Sherlock’s sweat. John ran his tongue down, and down, lapping up the mess he had made; closing his lips around random patches of skin, and sucking hard. He gently, playfully, licked at the honey in Sherlock’s crack, and then kept going where he hadn’t left any.

Sherlock’s breath, erratic and almost pained, finally broke out into a moan as John spread apart his cheeks, and ran his tongue in slow circles around Sherlock’s hole. John smiled against him, and lost some of the gentle ease he had been using as he pushed his tongue into the tight ring of muscle, and buried his face.

He tapped at Sherlock’s thighs, and Sherlock brought his knees up on the bed, giving John better leverage as he kept fucking his tongue into Sherlock’s arse.

The moans that John had been waiting to hear finally gave way to words as John slipped a hand around to grasp at Sherlock’s cock.

“Ahh-God, yes.” Sherlock ground out between his teeth, biting at the case of the pillow.

He was pushing himself back against John’s mouth and forward into his hand, trying to take back just a little bit of the control he had willingly let himself lose.

"Do you want to come like this?" John asked.

"It's fine-yes, yes. I do."

"okay."

John doubled his efforts, losing any rhythm that he had previously set. He knew that Sherlock was close, that all he needed was the littlest bit more. John, himself, was aching, but he would wait, wait until Sherlock's hands were free and he could be touched.

"Jo-John!" Sherlock yelled out his name, and his body went tense.

John soothed him through his orgasm, and gently brought him back down to Earth. John fell down onto the bed. He could feel a cough starting to form in the back of his throat. It had to have been there the whole time, he was just too distracted to let it happen, but now it was shaking his whole body.

He reached over to undo one of Sherlock's cuffs, letting him take care of the other himself.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, leaning over and putting a calming hand on John's shoulder.

I'm fine. I'm just-going to get a glass of water."

He smiled, "Don't fall asleep. It's my turn when I get back."

**  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge, huge thank you to rhiannon for helping me out with some medical and beta stuff!  
> I'm trying my best with all the technical stuff!

**  
  
**

John had already taken his shower, and toweled off, but he was still in the bathroom, in front of the sink soaking up the steam that was coming out from Sherlock’s turn in the shower. He listened as Sherlock hummed a tune that John wasn’t familiar with, and opened the medicine cabinet to take out one of the plastic bottles that lined the shelves. He twisted off the top and popped in his antibiotic.

His cough had subsided a few days ago, and he was feeling mostly better. He was still tired most of the time; noticeably so, and he had been running a slight fever for the last few days that seemed to come and go at will.

John didn’t worry much about any of it. A doctor would know when he was truly ill, and he was embarrassed enough that he had decided to go into see Sarah when he likely could have just waited until the cough disappeared on its own.

That’s why he had been ignoring her calls and her text messages. Well, that, and they had been busy with a case that finally came to a close the previous afternoon, at which point they decided sleep, a shared shower and take-away was the only thing they were in the mood for.

John swiped his hand across the mirror, wiping away the condensation that had covered it, to check if he needed to shave that morning or if he could let it go another day. But his attention was brought down to his chest where there was a pattern of marks across his skin; bruises that Sherlock had left from the night before; dark purple, nearly black.

“I think you went a little overboard with the love bites last night.” he said.

John laughed as he ran his fingers across the tender bruises, and talked to Sherlock through the curtain of the shower.

“I don’t believe I was any more enthusiastic than usual.” Sherlock answered.

“I look like I was on the losing end of a fight.”

“It’s not my fault that you have an obsession with pain.”

“I do not.”

Sherlock pulled the shower curtain back, and peered his head around it, giving John a look that said John had no idea what he was talking about; a common, if not affectionate look from the man. John stepped over to him, and planted a kiss on his wet lips.

“I’ve only an obsession with you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes,  and pulled the curtain closed again.

“Sentiment.” he said.

John went back to the sink and opened the cabinet again to take down his toothbrush and toothpaste. After putting a stripe on the bristles, but before he had the chance to hold it underneath the faucet and bring it up to his mouth there was knock on the door.

He didn’t think that he heard the buzzer, but it was possible that Sherlock disconnected it again, and so Mrs,. Hudson let whoever it was in.

John put down the brush and took his plaid dressing gown down from the hook, and tied it around himself as he walked down the hallway to open the door.

“Sarah.” he said, half as a question and half as a greeting.

Sarah was standing on the other side of the door, dressed for work with an open envelope in her hands. She pushed her way into the flat without so much as a nod of her head.

“You’ve been ignoring me.” she said.

“I haven’t. I’ve been busy, and the cough is already going away. I was feeling old, and overreacted-”

Sarah held the envelope out for him to take.

“Your  lab work came back, and I needed to talk to you about it.  There are a few anomalies.”

“Such as?”

John took the envelope and opened it to take out the piece of paper inside. He studied it for a few minutes, and then folded it in half and held it down at his side.

“This could be anything.” he said to her.

“It could be, but you’ve been tired, yea? your body aching deep in your bones-”

“You know that the cases take a toll on me physically.”

Sarah’s eyes softened, and she pushed aside the fabric of John’s dressing gown, revealing the bruises that looked even more angry in the morning light streaming into the living room.

“Is that from your cases?”

“Sherlock, actually. Most of them.” he added softly at the end.

John heard the shuffle of bare feet coming from the kitchen, and he felt Sherlock’s presence come upon them.

“Am I missing something?” he asked.

Sarah still had her fingers against John’s chest. She quickly pulled them away, and smiled.

“Sarah was just bringing me the results of my blood tests the other day.”

John handed Sherlock the paper in his hand. Sherlock opened it up, and he too studied the numbers and the letters and the lines on the chair.

“You have an unusually high white blood cell count.” he said. “What does that mean?”

“It can mean a number of things.” John said, quickly. “But, Sarah believes it means cancer; leukemia.”

Sherlock set the paper down on the table next to him, and stayed stood behind John. John could feel the tension that was building up inside of him and starting to roll off into the room. Sarah cleared her throat breaking the silence, and reached into her pocket to hand John a card.

“He’s the best, and so he’s very busy. Call him. Soon.”

“Sarah- honestly-”

“John. Could you please stop being a difficult patient, and start being a doctor. You’re bruising and your fatigue, and the pain in your bones. You know that this is something you can’t ignore.”

John stood still, and then reached out to take the card from her; he put it into the front pocket of his dressing gown, and then immediately felt Sherlock’s hand reach around and inside to pull it out.

“What are you-”

Sherlock held his finger up to cut off John’s protest and grabbed his mobile sitting on the mantel of the fireplace. He only pressed one number on the screen, and waited what could have only been two rings.

“Mycroft, I need you to do me a favour. I’ll owe you whatever you’d like in the future.” he said.

Mycroft? No. Sherlock could not be calling his brother for this. John pressed the heel of his hand into his eyes, and groaned.

“I need you to call Dr. James Kippler, and make an appointment. He’ll tell you that he’s booked for the next month, but you’ll make sure that he clears that schedule.”

There was a pause of silence while Sherlock listened to Mycroft on the other line.

“Yes. I do know what sort of doctor he is. The appointment isn’t for me.” Sherlock took a moment to wet his lips and clear his throat, “It’s for John.”

….

“You have ten days to collect your favour.”

….

“But. I- thank you, Mycroft.”

Sherlock hung up the call, and placed the card on the mantle with his phone back on top of it.

“Mycroft will text when he’s made the appointment.”

“Thank you, Sherlock.” Sarah said with a quiet smile.

Sherlock nodded his head in return.

“Well, I have to get to work now. Keep in touch, John.”

Sarah leaned in and kissed his cheek before she turned around and clicked the door behind her.

John and Sherlock stood together after she left, several feet apart, and not saying a word to each other, and not looking at each other either.  John stiffened his shoulders, and turned so that he could walk through the kitchen and into their bedroom to get dressed. He paused a second when he caught Sherlock, still standing with the most blank expression he had ever seen on his face.

“I’m covering the last few hours of Nancy’s shift at the clinic, and I’d like to do the shopping before then.” he said.

“Okay.”

“Is there anything you need me to pick up?”

“No. Thank you.”

“Alright.”

John hesitated just a moment more, clenching and unclenching his fists before he made himself move again and went to disappeared into the bedroom. He opened the sliding doors of the wardrobe and pushed aside Sherlock’s colored button ups and his endless supply of suit coats and trousers. It didn’t matter how many times John moved the hangers to the other side of the dividing bar, Sherlock’s clothes always ended up pushing his own into the corner of the other side.

John picked out his chunky oatmeal jumper. He had been thinking about one of his checkered shirts and cardigans while he was showering, but suddenly he felt like he wanted to wrap himself in the wool and cotton of his favourite jumper. He paired it with a pair of his dark washed jeans and black loafers.

When he came back out of the bedroom, Sherlock was seated on the couch, legs curled underneath each other and laptop balanced on his knees. John didn’t need to be a genius to figure out what he was probably looking up.

“I’ll be back shortly.” John said, picking up his keys from the shelf behind the door.

“Alright.”  

Sherlock managed to reply, not looking up from whatever article it was he was reading. John sighed, He swirled his keys around his index finger and clasped them in his hand. Just as he was reaching for the doorknob, he heard Sherlock’s voice come from the couch.

“I love you.” he said.

****“I know you do, Sherlock. I love you too.”**   
  
**


	8. Chapter 8

_Tomorrow, 930, St. Bart’s. Biopsy SH_

_Thursday, 900. Dr. Kippler. Pending lab results SH_

John was still at the shop when Sherlock’s text message came. He hovered his fingers over the keyboard thinking about what he should say back, but he ended up slipping it back into his jacket pocket instead, not saying anything. He finished the shopping and managed to avoid a row with the chip and pin machine.

When he got back to the flat he notice that Sherlock’s coat wasn’t hanging on the hook, and so he trudged up the stairs with the bags in his hand. He set them on the dining room table and looked around the mess that was their kitchen. He caught sight of Sherlock’s laptop, open on the desk. The screen hadn’t gone black yet; Sherlock hadn’t been gone for very long. John wandered over. It was open to _The Science of Deduction_ , but there were at least seven other tabs of sites he visited in the time John was away.

They all had titles like _Signs and Symptoms, Leukemia Subtypes, Drugs and Treatment_.  The last tab read _Supporting your Spouse with Cancer_.

It broke John’s heart.

He left the screen back on the page where he found it and went to put the shopping away. He changed into something more suitable for work, and locked up before heading to the tube station.

The clinic was almost unbearable. He hoped that the patients and the normal routine would be a distraction, because he didn’t want to think about it. His brain wasn’t anywhere near ready to even consider the possibility of what might be happening to him, but it kept trying, kept drifting into thoughts that pulled at the pit of his stomach.

He heard a distant sound, like a ring in his ear. It took him a few moments to realize that it was his name being called from the doorway. He looked up from the spot in his desk that he had been staring at since his last patient left to find Mary peeking her head inside.

Ever since the split they had been working around each other; John came in on the days that Mary didn’t. In two years they only worked the same shift three or four times.

“Yea, what?” he asked.

“Sherlock is here.”

His name didn’t sound right coming from her lips, and she said as though it didn’t feel right being in her mouth.

“Just waiting out there?”

Sherlock didn’t wait. He barged in and made a scene. John had been in the middle of an exam of a patient’s breasts once and Sherlock threw the door open, two nurses trailing behind, and another standing just behind, the look of terror on her face that can only be caused by Sherlock Holmes.

“Yes. He said he didn’t want to disturb you. Are you- I mean, the two of you; is everything alright?”

“Do you care?” John asked, his voice clipped.

“Of course I care, John. We did love each other once. At least I did.”

John sighed and ran his hand over the back of his neck.

“Can you just tell him to come back, please?”

“Sure.”

Mary disappeared, leaving the door slightly open and just after, Sherlock pushed it in and quietly came inside. He was wearing his coat, and it did swish beautifully as it always did, but it was less so. A smile broke across John’s face, because he never was able to look at Sherlock without even a hint of happiness.

“What are you doing here; I’m going to be home in an hour?”

“You didn’t respond to my messages.”

“I know that. I didn’t know what to say.”

“Right. Yes. Well, is that all fine then; what the messages said?”

“Can you just stop it?” John asked.

He had his fingers against his temples, and was running them in a circular motion.

“Stop what?”

“Trying to god damned hard to be...not you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“And stop that too! You of all people can’t play stupid with me.”

“I’m not doing it on purpose, John. I honestly; I don’t know what to do.”

John sighed. He got up from his chair, and walked over to Sherlock to put his arms around his waist and looked up at him.

“I know that you don’t.”

He pressed his lips softly against Sherlock’s, and followed along his jawline before going back to his lips one last time.

“Just be yourself.” he said. “I need you to be yourself.”

Sherlock nodded, and they stood embraced together, John’s ear pressed against Sherlock’s chest and Sherlock’s chin pressed against John’s head.

“I’ve got one more patient. Do you want to get some take-away on your way home? It appears I won’t be able to eat, but you should.”

“It would be better if you did. I have a few stops to make.”

John laughed, “You just can’t be bothered to carry a bag up the stairs.”

Sherlock dipped his head and grinned against John’s hair before leaving a kiss there and breaking their bodies apart.

“Thai.” Sherlock said, straightening out his gloves and coat and heading for the door.

“Yes, alright. “

When Sherlock was gone, John took the five minutes he had before his last patient of the day to compose himself. She was easy; just a routine check up, and John was thankful when he could hang his coat up, and fold his stethoscope into his drawer. He handed his charts into Mary, sitting behind the front desk, and walked to the exit. With his hand on the handle, he turned and looked back at her.

“I did too.” he said to her, and pushed open the door before she had a chance to say anything back.

John picked up the Thai from the place that Sherlock liked, and brought it home. Sherlock’s coat was hanging on the hook this time, and that piece of reassurance made him feel warm. He went up the stairs, and felt even warmer when he saw Sherlock at the kitchen table, dressing gown tied loosely over his blue striped pyjamas and gray inside out t-shirt, bent over his microscope.

John set the bag down on the table and absently placed a kiss on top of Sherlock's head as he reached for the plates in the cupboard up above.

Sherlock ate, and John tried not watch him with jealousy as he drank cup after cup of peppermint tea, hoping it would give his stomach the illusion of being full.  They showered, and John settled into bed with another cup of tea and a book he had been working on for months. He listened to Sherlock clanking around glass beakers and slides, and he could hear the small creak of the microscope as Sherlock adjusted the knob.

He was just in that place, right between awake and asleep when he felt the mattress shift beside him, and Sherlock’s warm body wrap around him, and that was how he finally slipped away, and forgot about what awaited him in the morning.

**  
  
**


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for you comments and your kudos. Keep them coming!  
> As this is getting harder for you to read, it's getting harder for me to write. I will admit that I nearly cried once or twice working on this chapter.

John told himself that it wasn’t going to hurt as much as his brain was telling him that it would, but he was wrong, so incredibly wrong. He didn’t feel anything beyond an uncomfortable pressure as the needle was pierced through his skin, but as it reached deeper into his iliac crest, nearer to his bone, it burned, it stung; it was more painful than lying in the hot desert sand, bleeding to death. He knew he was crying. There was no way to stop it from happening.

The nurse was talking to him about some mundane thing in an overly calm voice. It was something he had done to many patients over the course of his medical career during painful procedures. He understood what she was doing, but all he wanted to do was slap her across the face and shut her up.

“We’re almost finished, John. You’re doing great.”

John nodded his head against the crunchy paper laid over the table in acknowledgement of her words. He held his breath when he felt the needle start to slip out. It seemed to burn more on the way out than in.

“You did great, John.” the nurse soothed. “It’s all over now. I’m going to have you relax and uncurl slowly, okay?”

“Okay.”

She put a hand in his back, and the other just below on his hip, gently.

“Now take a deep breath in, and slowly exhale while you straighten out.”

John did, and it was excruciating. Pain that deep in your body was something completely different than pain anywhere else. It was amplified a hundred times; searing and unforgiving. The nurse let him lie there a few moments to collect himself before helping him change back into his sweatpants and t-shirt, earlier discarded in favour of a hospital gown. She then helped ease him into a waiting wheelchair, and rolled him into the waiting room where he saw Sherlock sprawled along in one of the plastic chairs, fingers working feverishly at his phone.

John almost hoped that he wouldn’t be there when he was finished, that he would have gotten so bored he left to find some sort of adventure. John didn’t want Sherlock to see him like this; doubled over in pain, breath shaky.

Sherlock pulled himself up from the chair like a puppet on a string when he saw John from the corner of his eye. He smiled, hiding his face behind a mask the way only Sherlock Holmes could do, but John could sense it. He could feel the uncertainty, the fear; it hovered between the two of them like a thick fog.

Sherlock walked next to him, not saying a word as the nurse brought John out of the hospital onto the kerb near a line of waiting cabs. John did his best to avoid eye contact with Sherlock as she helped him up from the chair, and he winced with the lingering, aching pain.  Sherlock, for his part, watched it all in fascination.

The ride home was quiet, and it felt so cold. There had never been a moment in their relationship where a silence like this existed. John started to think about what was going to happen if the results were positive. How was he going to face Sherlock when he was soggy from chemo, weak and wiping his own sick away from the corners of his mouth. John spent three weeks of his medical school rotation in the oncology ward, and he remembered the face of each and every one of them. He remembered how their wives, husbands, daughters and sons looked at them as they reached for a glass of ice chips and got tired halfway there. He couldn’t become that, he couldn’t let Sherlock see him as the shell of the man he fell in love with.

John felt his throat tighten as a panic rose up from inside his stomach. His lungs constricted, and he needed to find air. Shit, he was panicking; he had worked himself up into a frenzy, and now he was going to full on freak out in the cab, in front of Sherlock. But there was a touch, a firm grasp of a hand in his own, and fingers holding tight. Sherlock didn’t say anything, and he didn’t look away from where he was watching London pass them by out the window, but John didn’t need him to. The reassurance that Sherlock was there with him, that Sherlock would always be there with him was more than enough in that moment.

They got home, and upstairs into the flat, after John made a joke about just spending the rest of the morning in Mrs. Hudson’s flat watching her soaps rather than set foot on even one of the steps. But they went slow, Sherlock behind John as he took each step slowly, and reminiscently of his limp from so long ago.

“Do you need anything?” Sherlock asked when they were standing in the middle of the living room together. “Tea, or maybe some of the soup Mrs. Hudson brought up the other day?”

“Do you remember what I told you I needed yesterday?”

“Of course. You told me to be myself, but you seem to have this idea in your head that who I am is someone who doesn’t care about you, who won’t care for you, when in fact, John, that is all I have been doing since I met you.”

John sighed, and fluffed a pillow he brought from the bedroom that morning and left on the sofa, against the soft, worn leather.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I just don’t want to be fussed over.”

“I know that you don’t, and I would never do that, but if I think I can help you, I will. So, I’ll ask you again; do you need anything?”

“Soup would be fine.”

Sherlock nodded, and went into the kitchen to pull out the leftover soup. John fixed himself on the sofa, head against the pillow and a heavy blanket over his legs. He turned on the television with the remote, and surfed through until he found something he wouldn’t have to pay any sort of real attention to. Sherlock came back with a tray; bowl of soup, plate of crackers, glass of ice water and some pain medication. he set it down on either side of John’s legs, and crossed the room to pull the television down from where it was tucked into the shelf and set it on one of their small tables. John didn’t thank him, and Sherlock didn’t wait for any thanks.

They sat together, John watching telly, and drifting in and out of sleep, Sherlock on his laptop updating one of his many spreadsheets on his latest experiment.  It was three hours like that when they heard the door open downstairs, and the high pitched tone of Mrs. Hudson’s voice followed by that of a lower, more gruff baritone, and then footsteps on the stairs.

“Lestrade.” Sherlock said absently, “must be important if he didn’t text me first.”

Sherlock jumped from his chair, and straightened himself as there was  was a knock at their door, and then it was pushed open, Lestrade walking through.

“Could really use your help guys.” he said.

He sounded exasperated, a little bit desperate even. John could just hear Sherlock saying that if Lestrade only called them in at the beginning of these cases then it wouldn’t get to that point.

“You can have me.” Sherlock said, “John is a bit under the weather.”

Lestrade looked down at John cuddled into the blanket on the sofa and nodded. “Still recovering from your dip in the Thames?” he asked.

“Something like that.” John answered.

John was thankful when Sherlock brushed past him and left with Lestrade. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate everything he was doing for him, and John did know that Sherlock would do anything for him. Making him a bowl of soup should have been nothing compared to jumping off from a building and faking his own death in order to keep John safe and alive.

And maybe that was what it came down to. Sherlock _could_ jump from a building, he could daze and confuse a threat with the sharpness of his mind and his tongue, he could attack someone with his surprisingly forceful right hook, but there was nothing, not a bloody damn thing he could do to save John from this. John would have to suffer, and hurt and ache, and eventually, he would have to die.

But John was getting ahead of himself. He had been doing that all day. There was always the chance that the test would come back negative, that there was something else wrong with him, or nothing at all.

Yes, there was always that chance. But a part of John, the part that wasn’t hurling forward to a panic attack every six minutes, the part that wasn’t telling all of his other parts to jump into the sea of denial and false hope, that knew.

**  
  
  
  
  
  
**


	10. Chapter 10

_It’s late, teetering on the edge of early when you come home. I can hear you in the living room, digging around in the desk drawer for your Scotch tape. I listen as you pad across the kitchen and into the bathroom where you start the shower.  It’s eighteen minutes, I’m watching the clock next to the bed, before you come into our room, quietly, under the impression that I’m asleep. And probably I should be, but I’ve been awake for the last hour, holding your pillow against my body, and idly playing with myself._

_I’ve missed you in a way I haven’t missed you in a long time._

_You’re surprised when I say hello, and you drop the pants you were holding in your hand, and turn to me.  You catch on that I’m as naked as you quickly, and even in the dark I can see the question in your eyes, asking me if it’s okay; if you can come over and touch me._

_"Please.” I say, and you stride over in that beautiful, effortless way that you do, and lie next to me, thigh against thigh.; hand in hand._

_I tell you that my hip doesn’t anymore. You know that it’s a lie, but you let me get away with it anyway, and we both turn on our side so that we can kiss. And your mouth has never tasted more delicious._

_Coffee, tobacco, and you. If I search your mouth hard enough, which I do, I can taste the bits of myself that have been left behind and entwined with your DNA. I’m a part of you, but then that was something we always knew._

_I’m tired, you’re tired, and I know you want to stand in front of the mirror where you just taped up photos, but there’s a possibility that I might be dying, and I don’t want to let you go. I would use my absolute last breath to make love to you if I could, but if this is real, if this is truly happening to me; to us, then there won’t be time again after tonight. I will be weak, filled with radiation. I’ll smell like hospital and vomit, and there will be days when I don’t want to get out of bed; days where I can’t. I will lose weight, because I’ll lose my appetite, and my hair, though nowhere as beautiful as yours, will be lost as well. You won’t want me again, not like you want me now, and I won’t want you to have me._

_You decide to stay, and maybe it’s because you can read all of the thoughts on my face, maybe it’s because you’re thinking them too, but whatever the reason is, your fingers are brushing along my ribcage in that perfect way that takes my breath away, and I’m melting; everything is melting away except for you. Your follow the curve of my arse, and I sigh into your mouth where we’re still kissing; slow and lazy._

_I’ve mimicked the movement if your hand with my own, only I’m brushing the side of my finger along the length of your cock, feeling it twitch and harden underneath my touch. I know that I’m not the only one to touch you there, but I like to think that I’ll be the last. At least I used to think that. Now, I’m not sure where I’ll fall in the line of your lovers._

_No. I won’t think about things like that. Not right now. I only want to think about you, and me, and the feel of your breath against my neck, your cock now delicately in the palm of my hand._

_I love the sounds that you make. You try so hard not to give in, not to admit that it feels as good as it does, because no matter how much you’ve come to terms with the fact that you do have a heart, and that it is capable and safe in my hands, there is still a part of you that is prideful, and maybe a little bit afraid._

_But then you break, and there’s a moan from deep within your throat, and the whispering affirmation of my name. And I smirk, because I’m selfish, because I want to hear it again; over and over again. So, I stroke you faster, and my name comes out once more; desperate and needy._

_You’ve been touching me as well, matching me stroke for stroke, and your name is mingling with my own on the edge of the air. I stop when I feel your stomach muscles start to clench, and you stop too. We both need something more than matching handjobs in the wee hours of the morning._

_It takes some arguing before I assure you that the pain left inside my hip is no more than an irritating stiffness, and that the nurse did tell me to make sure I stretched it from time to time, and how much I desperately want to be inside of you._

_That last bit being the most important._

_I watch you lie down on your back , hips raised against a pillow, and I have to take a minute to catch my breath, because you are so beautiful. Men don’t look like you; men look like me- odd and knobby and occasionally handsome when they put some work into it. But you are perfectgoregeousfuckingunbelievable., and mine. All mine._

_You’ve reached into the drawer as I’ve been distracted and handed me a bottle of lube that I open and spread generously along my fingers, and some on your opening as well. I toss it to the side of my leg._

_I kiss your thighs at the same time I slip the first finger in. You’re always so tight, but so willing, and it doesn’t take long before I push in my second, start to scissor and make a cursory swipe at your prostate which makes you jump in surprise, and wrap your fingers into the sheets._

_When I’ve added in my third finger, you’re begging, yes, begging, no matter what you try to tell me later, for me to just fuck you already, and I laugh at your vulgarity, at your impatience._

_I love that at a time like this, I can laugh with you._

_I acquiesce to your demand, because you’ve been open and ready for some time now, and slick lube over my cock. I let you wrap your legs tight around me, and I push in to the most perfect sound of my name rolling off your tongue._

_I’m amazed every time at how wonderful you feel with your body wrapped around me, and I drop my hands down on either side of your shoulders so that I can kiss you. It’s a sloppy, mashing kiss, because you’re writhing, and shaking, and I’m attempting to keep some sort of control over the two of us._

_You tell me that you’re close, and I wrap a hand around your cock, stroking hard as I feel you tense underneath me._

_“Please.” I say to you again, and it seems weird, because I’m asking you to come. But I want to see it, I want to see that moment where you’re completely lost; your mind silent and far away for the faintest of seconds._

_And you do. You come beautifully in my hand, and across your own belly, and my orgasm sneaks up on me, crashing over me like a wave against a wall._

_I collapse on top of you, smearing your mess into my own chest, but I don’t care much. I only care that I’m still inside of you, that I’m this close to you._

_That I love you. And you love me._

 


	11. Chapter 11

_acute myelogenous leukemia_

“John-”

_acute myelogenous leukemia_

“John-”

_acute myelogenous leukemia_

“Would you like a glass of water, Dr. Watson?”

John felt fingers wrap around his; loose and gentle, but still there. It brought him out of the stupor he had been in for the last fifteen minutes; ever since he heard the words acute myelogenous leukemia. He wanted to turn and look at Sherlock, sitting in the chair next to him, but he couldn’t bring himself to, so he just squeezed back, and then let them fall away.

“Water? No, I’m fine.”

“It’s a lot of information to take in.” Dr. Keppler said, “But it’s important that we move swiftly.”

“Right. Of course. Yes.”

John’s head was spinning out of control. Everything was blurred out of its context, but everything slowed down like dripping molasses just the same as the doctor kept speaking. John wasn’t even sure what he was saying, and he was glad to have Sherlock’s brain sitting next to him; able to remember everything John was incapable of hearing.

“On average, without reaching remission, survival rate is five years.” Dr. Keppler continued. “The numbers once remission is reached are a little vague, as everyone reacts differently, but with a successful marrow transplant a great number of patients have gone on to live an average lifespan. Of course, that’s a bridge we’ll cross when we get to it.”

Dr. Keppler took in a deep breath, and kept talking. John was certain he was never going to shut up.

“They are some more tests we’d like you undertake to know exactly what your specific prognosis is, and then we’ll be setting you up with a treatment plan after that. Now, we just have some initial paperwork to get through; insurance, authorization forms….”

He began shuffling a stack of papers that he placed in front of John along with a pen.

“Any medical decisions that you are unable to make will be made b y your next of kin-”

“No!” John yelled.

He threw down the pen  he just picked up to sign the top paper about his billing. His shouting startled the doctor, and even Sherlock jumped back in his seat a little.

“I don’t want her making any decisions.” John said, a bit more calmly.  “I want him to do it.”

John made a quick glance to Sherlock, but it was so fleeting that John only saw a flash of marble and wool before he turned back.

“Are you two married?” Dr. Keppler asked, looking between the two of them.

John shook his head.

‘Has he been made your power of attorney?”

John shook his head again.

“Well, I’m sure you can manage to remedy one of those into existence. And as soon as our legal department has the information we’ll make the necessary changes. Until then, it remains your next of kin.”

It was that John didn’t trust Harry to make the right decision. She had been sober, truly sober the last three years, and though she and John still didn’t talk much, he knew that she would respect his wishes; whatever they might be. But it didn’t seem right to let Sherlock, the man he shared his life with sit by and have no say in anything, when he would have so much to say. And he wouldn’t do it nicely if anyone were to stand in his way.

They would need to call Mycroft to call in a favour to make Sherlock his power of attorney, and he would need Mycroft to have everyone in the hospital know that Sherlock should be considered his family, and that he was to be allowed everywhere John needed to be. It was a regular fight they had with the A&E, but they needed something more permanent now. John hated calling in favours from the elder Holmes, but right now his pride didn’t seem to care. He needed Sherlock, and if the crumbling corners of the mask Sherlock had put over his face the moment they sat down in those leather chairs were any indication, Sherlock needed John as well.

“I have you set for your tests later this afternoon, if that’s alright? Shouldn’t take more than thirty minutes; just blood draws and a few x-rays.”

“Yea, yea. That’s fine.”

John sifted through the last of the papers, signing his name where it needed to be signed, and initialing where it needed that. His hand was shaking the entire time, but he made it through, and slid them across the desk back toward the doctor.

“Great. I have some informational packets here for you; information about the disease, recipes some of our patents have put together that they find help with the side effects of the chemotherapy, and some other things rich in anti-oxidants and the like. There’s some information about support groups- for the both of you.”

John took the papers from the doctor, “You two get some tea in the cafeteria, and you can come back up to the desk at twelve for your tests.”

Sherlock was the first to get up from his chair, and he waited for John by the office door to finally push back and slip from his chair. They walked out of the ward, and down a hallway until they came to the lift that would take them to the cafeteria.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked in the privacy of the lift.

“No. I’m not alright, Sherlock. You know that.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say to you.”

“Nothing, okay? Just don’t say anything.”

And so Sherlock didn’t. They rode the lift in silence, walked down the hallway in silence, and drank the hospital coffee in silence. John’s head had a million things swirling around inside, and there didn’t seem to be a stop to any of it. He was replaying the conversation from the office, the words he heard finally catching up to his brain.

He looked across the table at Sherlock, peeling the paper from his empty cup. If John was able to quiet down the things that plagued Sherlock’s mind, then Sherlock had to be able to quiet down his.

“I didn’t mean _anything_.” John said. “I meant don’t say anything about this clusterfuck we’ve walked into, but please, Sherlock, say _something_ to me.”

Sherlock regarded him for a minute, crumped his cup into his hands, and leaned in close.

“I sing in the shower when you aren’t home.” he said, seriously.

John started to laugh before he even had time to think. He laughed harder than he needed to, but it felt good to let that amusement, to let that happiness wash over him, and when he opened his eyes to see a red twinge of embarrassment in Sherlock’s cheeks, he only laughed harder.

“Wha-What do you sing?” he asked, wiping at the tears brimming over his eyes.

“Nothing special.”

“Oh, come on, Sherlock. You have to give me an example.”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, and looked over his shoulder, “Fleetwood Mac.” he said.

John started to laugh all over again.

“I’m glad that I could amuse you.”

“I’m glad that you could too.” John said, reaching over the table top, and holding onto Sherlock’s hand as tight as he could.

**  
  
**


	12. Chapter 12

Things moved quickly, and days later, John felt like he was stuck in the center of a hurricane. He watched everything happen like it wasn't happening to him, but it was. There were more tests, and a more thorough prognosis _-it's quite aggressive John, but we're going to be just as aggressive in return._

John kept on at work, hoping that keeping everything normal as before would keep him from breaking down, which he had yet to do. But stopping mid day to swallow one of his prescriptions, the one that's meant to aid the chemotherapy he would be starting in four days, the one that made him nauseous, and need to take another  of his medications was anything but normal.

At home things weren't any better. He and Sherlock existed in a kind of vacuum where they barely spoke, and barely touched. John couldn't even look at Sherlock and Sherlock seemed to only be able to stare at John. Not his usual exploratory stare or the one where John was just an object to focus on while he searched through his Mind Palace. This stare was sad and it was frustrated, and felt like it was trying to cling onto John and live there forever.

John still made them tea, but Sherlock thanked him for it, and let his fingers brush along john's a bit longer than usual, and he apologized for whatever thing he had done that was irritating John. John was doing his best not to lose his temper with him again. He knew that this was territory Sherlock had no idea how to maneuver through, and John wasn't strong enough yet to help him figure it out.

He had more than Sherlock to worry over though. He couldn't hide being sick forever, even if that was what he wanted to do. He would need to tell his friends; Lestrade, molly, Mrs. Hudson. He would need to tell Sarah, and Mary. She and he did share a life together once, no matter how brief it was. But first, John needed to tell Harry.

It was morning when John sent her a text to make arrangements.  He pulled himself up from his chair, and brought his mug and plate from breakfast into the kitchen.

Sherlock was at the table, still in his pyjamas, the clutter of his death dioramas replaced with the clutter of his chemistry set. John really wouldn't have been surprised if he was trying to find a cure for cancer.

"I've invited Harry over for dinner tonight." he said.

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement of having heard John.

"She wants Italian and I have no desire to cook or to let you attempt to, so I'm going to call a favour in to Angelo. Anything special you'd like?"

"The caper salad."

"Alright. I'm going to shower and do the shopping. We're out of milk as usual."

"I can do it." Sherlock said.

"I'd like to. Keep things normal."

"Whatever you'd like, John."

John sighed, and leaned against the edge of the table.

"What I would like is for you to come kiss me."

Sherlock looked up from whatever it was he was observing underneath his microscope, and just looked at John. It was thirty seconds, maybe thirty three before he stood up, and took johns hands off the table, holding them tight in his own.

When Sherlock kissed him it felt the same as the way he had been staring, and it made John feel sick to his stomach.

"Not like that." He said, pulling his lips away, "Kiss me like you used to. Like you aren't afraid to lose me."

Sherlock brushed his fingers through johns hair and looked down at his face.

"I've always been afraid of losing you." he said.

Sherlock closed his mouth over johns again, capturing his tongue for himself. It quickly turned deeper and more frantic, the both of them needing the touch of the other just the same way that they needed oxygen. Sherlock's hand traveled down the length of johns body, and he very slowly, hesitantly started to palm John through the front of his pyjamas.

"God, yes. Please." John said against Sherlock's throat, where his lips started to travel to.

Sherlock palmed harder, and Johns body responded in kind. He grabbed Sherlock by the wrist, and directed his hand inside of his pants. John let out a moan at the contact of skin against skin.

"Mmm, yeah, Sherlock. That's wonder-ful"

Johns breath caught as Sherlock's fingernails scratched at his testicles just the faintest bit.

His own nails were at Sherlock's back, having slid them underneath his shirt. Johns head was resting on Sherlock's shoulder, and he nipped at the skin atop the hard bone as he neared closer to the edge of his orgasm.

John knew that there would be days in the future, probably not too long from then, that this wouldn't happen, that his body wouldn't cooperate, and that Sherlock wouldn't even want to try.

He came into Sherlock's hand, grunting and grinding against him. He took a few moments feeling Sherlock rub along his spine before he straightened back up and allowed Sherlock to remove his hand and wash John away down the kitchen sink.

"Do you- I mean I can-" John stammered.

Sherlock dried his hands and walked back over to John. He laced his fingers behind his head, and kissed him gently.

"I'm fine." He said.

"Are you really fine or just saying that because you don't want to inconvenience me? Because watching you come is anything but inconvenient."

Sherlock didn't answer, so John took his hand and brought him to the bathroom where he started the shower, and let the room fill with steam as he undressed Sherlock. He slipped his hands underneath the hem of his shirt and lifted it up his torso, over his head and finally over the tips of his fingers, and let it fall to the floor. He kissed at Sherlock's neck, and toyed with the string of his pyjama pants, and dipped his fingers into the waistband to tug them down over his hips, and let them pool at his feet.

"Mmm, Have I told you that you're magnificent, Sherlock? he asked, undressing himself and pulling back the curtain of the shower.

"You may have mentioned it a time or two."

The two of them stepped into the tub, and shared the hot spray of water. John watched it fall from Sherlock's dense curls, over his face and down onto his chest.

"Well, I'm going to tell you again."

John leant down and kissed down Sherlock's body.

"You. Are. Marvelous." he said, accentuated with every kiss.

John made it onto his knees, the water falling into his face. But he ignored it in favor of kissing from Sherlock's knees to the insides of his thighs.

"Actually John, I had something different in mind." Sherlock said, turning around and leaning his hands against the tile.

John smiled, and positioned himself so that he was crouched just in front of Sherlock's arse. Each cheek was the most perfect, round globe. John took each in a handful, and nipped at the sensitive skin before spreading them apart and licking a long stripe over the most glorious of secreted away areas on Sherlock's body.

It was musky and delicious, and John pushed his tongue into the ring of muscle, and used it to fuck him over and over again while Sherlock keened for more above him as he stroked himself to the rhythm of John's tongue.

This was what John wanted. This, everyday. He wanted spontaneous moments where they couldn't control their lust for one another, he wanted to know that Sherlock craved his touch as much as he craved Sherlock's. What he wanted was for things to be the way that they always had been. Wanted to hear Sherlock calling his name the way he was in that moment.

He wanted the life they had built together, not the life that was going to be falling apart.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are we all hanging in there?   
> I hope I haven't broken anyone too badly yet. 
> 
> As always, comments keep me going!
> 
> Enjoy!

It was a quarter passed seven when John showed up at Angelo's. He spotted John from the back of restaurant, and smiled before disappearing into the kitchen and coming back a minute later with two bags in his hands.

"For you. I put an extra order of the garlic bread in there." he said, handing the bags over.

"Thank you. Sherlock will appreciate that."

Angelo smiled, "Is everything okay between you and him?" he asked.

John was taken aback by the question. He knew that Angelo had taken a special interest into his and Sherlock's life since the very first moment John met the man, but he was a bit surprised to hear the concern in his voice.

"I- Yea. Why do you ask?"

"He stopped by for lunch a couple of days ago; ordered a salad and looked out the window. I thought maybe it was for one of your cases, maybe he was waiting for you, but you didn't come, and he looked; well, he looked sad. Like I haven't seen in a long time. Thought maybe the two of you had a fight or something."

John sighed, and gave a placating smile. He remembered the afternoon after they found out about John's cancer that Sherlock took off. He didn't tell John where he was going, and John didn't ask where he had been when he came back.

"Sherlock and I are just fine. But I- well, I have cancer." John said.

It was the first time John said it out loud. The first time he acknowledged it to anyone, and it wasn't as difficult as he thought it would be, though he had no idea why Angelo was the first one to hear it. Maybe his subconscious was practicing for when he had to tell Harry in less than an hour, maybe he had been holding it on for so long that he would have told anyone at that point. Maybe he just needed to tell himself.

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that." Angelo said.

"Yea. So, was I."

John transferred one of the bags so that he was holding both in one hand and dug into his back pocket to take out his wallet. Angelo immediately started waving his arms in protest.

"Have I ever made you pay for anything?" he asked.

"And have I ever left here without paying?"

Angelo laughed, and took the notes that John handed him, shoved them into his apron pocket.

"You take care of yourself Dr. Watson."

"I will, thank you."

"And take care of Sherlock too. He isn't good with things like this."

John nodded, "Yea. I know. Thanks again."

John left the restaurant, and got into the cab he had wait for him. It wasn't a long walk back to the flat, but he was tired, and he did have two heavy bags of food to carry. He paid for his short ride and jotted up the stairs.

"Oh, you've cleared off the table. Thank you." he said to Sherlock, upon bringing the bags in to set them down.

Sherlock turned around from the box he had just finished putting all of his equipment into to look at John for a second before turning back to the box, and picking it up in is arms.

"Look, Sherlock, if you have something better to be doing tonight, you don't have to stay."

"Do you not want me to be here?"

"No, I do. But it's likely going to get emotional..."

Sherlock stared at him blankly, "I know."

"And you don't really know what to do with all that."

"John, if you don't want me to be here, then just say so, and I'll bring myself elsewhere."

John sighed. He put down the loaves of bread in his hands on the table, and crossed around it to where Sherlock was standing by the counter.

"Put the box down." he said.

Sherlock gave him that look that said he was going to do no such thing, that he didn't do something just because John asked him to, and so John gave him the look that said he would do what John asked or John would quickly recall up the days when he was Captain Watson, and make Sherlock do it anyway.

When the box was back on the counter, John took each of Sherlock's arms and wrapped them around his waist, and then wrapped his own around Sherlock's, and laid his head against his chest.  They stood in an embrace, silently for several minutes before John spoke into the fabric of Sherlock's shirt.

"I'm sorry." he said.

"Whatever for?"

"For not knowing what the hell I'm doing. For making you feel however it is I'm making you feel."

"First, I am always under the assumption that you have no idea what you are doing, and second, you aren't making me feel in any particular way. I understand this is difficult for you."

"But it's difficult for you too, and I need to remember that."

"I will manage, John. I always do."

He wasn't sure why that was what did it, but suddenly all of the anger and sadness he had let build up inside of himself from the moment he started to believe that Sarah might be right when she came by started to rise up to the surface, and spill out. He didn't have time to pull away from Sherlock, who at some point in their near permanent embrace started rubbing circles against John's back, so the tears that were raging out his eyes spread like a wildfire into the expensive cotton of Sherlock's button up.

His body was in fight or flight mode, and had he been staring down a criminal, holding his gun to someone's head or watching Sherlock perched at the edge of a tall building, he would have fought, would have fought with all of his might, but emotion, real emotion like this in front of Sherlock Holmes made every synapse in his brain scream to flee; as fast as he possibly could.

He scrambled away, and backed himself against the kitchen table, wiping at his eyes while trying to hide at the same time.

"It's okay, John." Sherlock said.

"It's not okay!" John yelled back at him. "This is all very far from not okay. I've nearly died dozens of times in the last fifteen years of my life; guns, knives, bloody explosive vests strapped to my chest, and I outlived each and every attempt, and now; now I'm going to have to sit here and watch myself slowly die from own fucking body? I-mmm- I have to watch you watch me. So, please Sherlock, please tell me how this is going to be okay."

Sherlock stepped forward, and stood toe to toe with John.

"Because you are a fighter. Because you have nearly died a dozen times in the last fifteen years of your life, and managed to stay alive. This is just another attempt to add to your list. And, because I know what it's like to watch the person you love realize that you are about to die and knowing there is nothing you can do about it. I will not let you know that pain, John. I won't."

John heard the crack in Sherlock's voice, saw the sheen that was coating his eyes, as he too started to lose his resolve, but Sherlock was strong, far stronger than John ever hoped he could be himself, and quickly recovered. John pressed the palm of his hand to Sherlock's cheek, and rubbed his thumb against the sharp angle of his bone.

"If only it were that simple, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes were closed, and John pressed up on his toes to leave a kiss on the tip of Sherlock's nose. He lowered himself back down, and sniffled a few times, before wiping away at the stain left on Sherlock's shirt.

"I've ruined it." he said.

"It's nothing a quick change and a spin in the wash can't fix."

Sherlock picked up his box once again and carried it away with him down the hall and into the bedroom. John finished setting the containers on the table, and brought down the plates from the cupboard. He set those out as well, and he too went back into the bedroom.

John stood at the mirror in the corner of the room, poking at the red swells underneath his eyes, as he caught a glimpse of Sherlock unbuttoning his shirt and replacing it with a new one. John blushed a little when he noticed that Sherlock caught him staring and his reflection was smirking at John's.

"I was admiring the shirt." John said, turning around.

"Oh, I've no doubt that you were."

"Shut up, Sherlock."

He walked passed Sherlock, sliding his hand discreetly, and quickly into the open space left at the top of Sherlock's neck, before sliding back out again, and heading into the sitting room to wait for his sister. He and Sherlock may have quickly put their emotional outburst behind them, but John still had another one to ready himself for before the night was through.


	14. Chapter 14

Harry was twenty minutes late, but she wasn't drunk, and for that John was thankful. He hadn't been expecting her to show up loaded, it was at least three months since she had a drink, but John knew all too well how easy it was for her to fall off the wagon. He only hoped that his news wasn't going to give her a giant push down to the ground right there in the kitchen.

Growing up, before their parents died, it didn't matter that John was the younger one; he was fiercely protective of her, threatening anyone who dared to comment on how she didn't conform to their idea of normal. Harry was equally protective of John, she just expressed it differently than he did; always there to pick him up off the ground when someone bigger than him got in the last punch, and wipe away the dirt from the palms of his hands. And he still remembered the night their parents died. How Harry sat with him, told him that it was okay to cry; that she was going to cry, and didn't want to do it alone.

John also knew that Harry blamed herself, and her drinking for the reason she and John lost touch for so many years, and she believed that their lack of a relationship, once so close and so guarded, was the reason John joined the Army; was ultimately the reason he was shot.

"How have things been?" Harry asked, settling down onto the sofa.

She was nervous, not having been in the flat more than once or twice; each ending with her in tears and Sherlock punching his fist into the wall very near her head. It was safe to say that the two of them did not get on, and it was more than the way that no one got on with Sherlock. Harry still wanted to protect her little brother, maybe wanted to make up for all the times she wasn't able to protect him by saving him from the man who broke his heart. And Sherlock wanted to do much the same; to protect John from someone who hurt him.

It was a childish fight that neither of them had to engage in, because John was more than capable of protecting himself from the two of them.

John dug his toes into the rug underneath his feet. He was nervous too, but didn't want to worry her early on. He at least wanted to get through dinner, wanted to have a decent evening with his boyfriend and his sister; to feel something normal.

"Good." he answered.

"Sorry I was so late. I was on a phone call; lost track of the time."

John didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to see the trace of a smile that flickered across her lips, and the way that her eyes sparkled for just a moment as she thought back to the call.

"Oh; a phone call, eh?" John asked, the teasing tone only a sibling can have, hanging on the edge of his words.

She blushed a little.

"It's nothing serious; still early days. Very early days, but I like her."

"That's good Harry. That's really good."

"Yea."

They were quiet for a few minutes, still not used to being in one another's company. The silence was broken by Sherlock sweeping into the living room from the door. He left ten minutes earlier to buy a pack of cigarettes. Of course he didn't tell John that was what he was going to do; he instead he was going to get milk and a tin of coffee for after dinner, because he used the last of the grounds trying to grow some sort of tropical plant. So, while the cigarettes were no doubt tucked away in his pocket, he had the milk and the coffee in hand.

"Oh Harry, good. You made it after all." Sherlock said, closing the door with his foot.

"And here I was starting to hope John asked me over to tell me he was leaving you." she quipped back.

Sherlock smiled, and walked passed John, leaning down to give him a kiss on the top of his head, but not because he was feeling particularly sentimental at the moment.

"Hey," John said, "I thought I told you both to be on your best behaviour tonight."

Although John had to admit that it felt fantastic to see Sherlock finally be the snarky arsehole he knew he could be after two weeks of walking around on eggshells. He loved the sweet, caring and undeniably human side of Sherlock, but he appreciated it when it was understated or when it was desperately needed and unexpected.

"Sorry." Harry said.

John nodded in acceptance of her apology, and offered to get her something to drink. She asked for a glass of water, and so John went into the kitchen where Sherlock was putting away the milk, and took a glass down from the cupboard.

He maneuvered around Sherlock for the tray of ice in the freezer and popped two in the glass and then filled it with water.

"Is the night over yet?" Sherlock asked.

"It hasn't even begun."

"I'm starting to wish you had told me you didn't want me here."

John laughed. He knew that Sherlock was doing a bit of acting for John's sake, but he appreciated it none the less. He only hoped that it would carry over into the coming days and months.

John set the glass down on the table, and filled two more, setting those each at a place. Harry wandered her way into the kitchen and the three of them settled down into a quiet, if not pleasant meal.

"So," Harry said, with a mouthful of spaghetti in her mouth, "what exactly is it you've lured me over here for? Because I know damn well you didn't just want to have dinner with me."

"No, well, dinner with you is just fine, but yes, there is an ulterior motive."

"You're either getting married or trying to pull me into some kind of pyramid scheme."

"Neither, actually."

John set his fork down and took a drink. His hands were sweating, or was that the condensation from the glass?  If the sweat breaking out on his forehead was any indication, he was fairly certain it wasn't the condensation.

"Well, what is it then?"

John looked at her. He looked at the features of her face, and found the similarities between her and what he remembered of their mother. He didn't used to think so, but as Harry got older she looked more and more like her.

"John, you're starting to scare me." Harry said, putting her own fork down and staring back at her brother.

He still didn't look away from her or say anything, and it wasn't until he saw Harry's eyes look away from him and toward Sherlock for some kind of help that he snapped out of it.

"Sorry." he said, shaking his head. "Look, Harry, I've got something to tell you, and it isn't something good.

"Oh, God."

John was hot. His whole body was on fire from the inside out, and he was sweating in places he didn't even know he could sweat from. His mouth was dry, but there was no more water in his glass. Christ! It was proving to be so much more difficult than he had been imagining, and he nearly worked himself into a panic imagining it. He bent his head down and took in a deep breath that he held before exhaling. He licked his lips, and lifted his head again to look at Harry.

"I-I'm; fuck." he dropped his head again.

He felt Sherlock's hand on his shoulder; gentle and reassuring, and then he heard his name roll from Sherlock's mouth, just as gentle, just as calm.

John shrugged his hand away, "I'm fine, Sherlock; I can do it."

He looked up once again.

"Harry, I'm sick."

He watched Harry's face. He watched her take in the information, but not process it all; she was waiting, waiting to hear the last of it.

"It's cancer." John said, the words coming out quick and clunky, and tasting like bitter greens on his tongue.

It was almost three minutes before Harry said anything, and John sat and stared at her the entire time.

"You can't be serious. Are you serious?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'm serious."

"So what-what does this mean, then?"

"Well, the way I've always looked at cancer is that you're dying until you're not anymore. I'll have treatments, and I'll either get better or...I won't."

John was taken aback by a flurry of motion that coupled with the sound of a chair hitting the floor. He didn't even have time to breathe before Harry had her arms around his neck, practically sitting on his lap as she held onto him as tight as she possibly could while her body shook against his from the tears she was not even pretending to hide.  He wrapped his arms around her, and held onto her just as tight.

"It's okay." he said, echoing Sherlock's sentiment from earlier.

"Don't say that; don't you sit here and tell me you're dying and then pretend to be strong Captain John Watson, because it's not okay, and you bloody well know it."

John laughed, but his laughter quickly turned into a cracking sob, and for the second time that day he found himself crying onto someone else's shirt. They held onto each other for what felt like forever, but didn't seem long enough, before Harry lifted her head and laughed, slipping out of John's lap.

"I'm sorry." she said.

And John knew she wasn't just apologizing for nearly knocking him over and clinging on for her life.

"I am too. I really am."

He wiped his sleeve at his eyes, and set his shoulders straight while folding his hands against the table. He finally looked next to him and noticed, witout much surprise, that Sherlock wasn't there anymore. He leaned back in his chair to see the bedroom closed.

"Harry, there's something else I need to tell you."

"What is it?"

"I've given Sherlock dominion over all of my medical decisions. In the event that I can't, of course."

Harry pushed her hair out of her face, and set her lips in a thin line the way she did when she was angry.

"Why did you do that?" she asked.

"Because he's my partner, but since we aren't married he didn't have any say in anything, and he should."

"Then perhaps he should bother to give a damn and marry you."

"He does give a damn." John ran his fingers through his hair, and down the front of his face. "Look, do you honestly want the responsibility of my life in your hands?"

Harry bit her bottom lip and slowly shook her head.

"I didn't think so."

"But John, he doesn't _feel_ anything."

"He does. He feels a lot more than you and I could ever even begin to understand. It doesn't matter anyway; married or not, he is the only person I would ever trust with my life."

"I'll never understand why." she said, and sat back down in her chair across from him.

John shrugged his shoulders, and leaned back in his chair. he closed his eyes, and listened to his own heart beat inside his chest. It had slowed some now that it wasn't compensating for the pure fear based adrenaline that was pumping through his poisoned blood. He was tired; exhausted, and all he wanted to do was rest in the bath, let the steam envelop him, and then climb into bed; warm, naked and still a little bit wet, and just feel his body beside Sherlock's.

John heard the chair again, and a shuffling. He opened his eyes to see Harry standing above him, a sad smile across her face. She bent, and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"I love you, John."

"I love you too Harry."

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

The lights were off in the room, but everything about it still felt harsh. It wasn't like they didn't try to make it feel as comfortable as they could, but what really was there could be done?

"This sucks, Sherlock. I hate hospitals."

"Funny coming from a man whose made his career in medicine."

Sherlock set down the bag he was carrying near the cupboard door, and looked around the sparse, sterile room. 

John threw Sherlock a look, and set another bag down next to the first one.

"It's different when you're on the other side of things." he said.

"As are so many things in life."

They quietly regarded each other for a moment before there was a knock on the door, and a nurse peered her head inside.

"Dr. Watson?"

John nodded at her.

"Your procedure is scheduled to start in fifteen minutes. There's a bit of prep and some paperwork beforehand, so if you're ready, I can walk you down to the room."

"Uh, yes; yea. Sure."

He slipped off his coat and handed it over to Sherlock who hung it in the cupboard. John gave a forced smile to him as he followed the nurse out of the room and down the hall.

Hospitals smelled different when you were a patient; looked different too. Suddenly the white and salmon and green that was used to make a patient feel calm and comfortable felt old, stifling, and like an outdated joke. And the overpowering scent of sterility, so strong it felt stale, made John nauseated.

He had wanted to stay home during his treatments; five days of chemotherapy for one week, at which point, they would reassess his situation, and see where to go. It was going to make him weak, lower his blood count to _'dangerous levels that you aren't equipped to monitor.'_ So, John checked himself into the hospital like he was checking into a goddamned hotel.

John followed the nurse into a room with a row of machines and uncomfortable looking chairs. John had a rather high amount of white blood cells, and since the chemo would take a few days to effectively lower that count, his team decided they wanted to lower it beforehand, effectively speeding up the chemo process once it began by filtering out the white blood cells. Which meant, John was going to be hooked up to one of the machines staring back at him from  the door, and have his blood and plasma taken out from his body, and then put back in, minus the offending white cells.

It sounded unpleasant.

And sitting there with the IV in his arm, it really wasn't as bad as it sounded. The blood going out was making him a little light headed, of course choosing to read an issue of National Geographic at that moment might not have been the smartest of choices, and it was a cold burn as it was pumped back inside.

He waited to be unhooked from the machine, waited through a blood draw immediately after, and was walked back to his room. Sherlock wasn't there, and John wasn't sure it he had been expecting him to be or not. Sherlock hated hospitals nearly as much as John did, though John suspected for a much different reason. They never talked about it; the time in his life before The Work, before John.

John let out a long sigh, and ran his fingers along the stiff sheets and the woven blanket of the bed. He tossed aside the gown lying over the edge, refusing to spend his entire week tied up in that flimsy thing, and opened his bag. He closed the door to the room, and slipped off his jumper and khaki trousers to change into a soft pair of blue cotton pyjamas, and a faded black t-shirt, he was pretty sure was Sherlock's, but had somehow made its way into his drawer of the wardrobe.

John did take the slippers left out with the gown, however, and slipped them over his feet. He hesitated at the end of the bed, fiddling with the hem of the blankets once again, waiting to see which urge was going to give in first; the one to climb in and hide or the one to stay where he was; his pride fully intact.

 There was a knock at the door, and it creaked open.  John turned to see Sherlock; paper cup in his hands.

"I thought maybe you found something better to do." John said with a smile, watching Sherlock come fully inside.

"Needed to get some coffee. The beverage of choice for sitting vigil."

"Please tell me you're not going to sit here all day and night."

"What else am I supposed to do?" Sherlock asked, all seriousness in his voice.

John stepped away from the bed and walked over to Sherlock. He took the coffee from his hand and set it on the tray before taking Sherlock's hand in his own, and squeezing it.

"Keep on with your life. Annoy Lestrade, call out Donovan on her terrible life choices; be Sherlock Holmes."

"It's difficult for Holmes to exist without Watson these days."

"He just may have to get used to it."

Sherlock let go of John's hand then, rough and angry, throwing it against John's body, and then stepping back.

"I won't get used to it!" he yelled. "You're going to be fine; you _have_ to be fine, because I don't- I don't..."

Sherlock stopped himself, and straightened out from the hunched over position he always took when he was angry and on a rant his mind let get away from him. He took in a shaking breath to calm himself, and reached for the cup on the tray.

"I'm sorry." he said, nearly sprinting to the door and pulling down the handle to leave, letting it slam behind him.

John scrubbed his hand over his face, and frustrated, ripped the covers back on the bed, and jumped onto it. He situated the pillows, wishing he had thought to bring his own, and laid his head down with his eyes screwed shut tightly, and waited for when Sherlock would inevitably slink back in; embarrassed for nearly losing his temper, for almost breaking down.

John wished more than anything that he just would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think, at least I hope, I thanked you all individually for your words and support, but I'd like to thank you again. It meant a lot to me. 
> 
> An update on my dad; his cancer has not spread beyond his prostate, which is great news, and something we weren't actually expecting to hear. He starts one form of his treatment in less than a week, and will begin radiation treatments after the first of the year. 
> 
> Thanks again for everything!


	16. Chapter 16

At John's first treatment, he kept his eyes closed, and his earbuds in; the entire three hours. He couldn't face the other people around him, couldn't look at their gaunt eyes, and their pale skin. They _looked_ sick. When John looked in the mirror he didn't see that yet, and he just couldn't see it on all of them. Each day it was the same lot; a couple of middle aged women, a gray haired man in his sixties, and a teenage girl who kept herself wrapped in a dark hoodie, and an old, faded copy of The Tao Te Ching in her hands.

Sherlock would flit in and out along with the family members of the other patients. Every once and a while Harry made an appearance as well, though she preferred to visit John in his room, so mostly it was just Sherlock brining John tea, and magazines or sitting in an unused chair and deducing the nurses that came in and out of the room. He only stayed twenty minutes at a time; becoming too restless, and disappearing with his coat tails trailing behind him.

"Is that your husband?"

It was John's fifth day of treatment, and the first time anyone had bothered to speak to him. He pulled his earbuds out, and turned to the red- headed girl in the hoodie sitting a chair away from him.

"Uh, no. We're not married."

"Oh.  He's interesting." she said.

John laughed, "That's one word to describe him."

"What are some others?"

"Oh, well; brilliant, bastard, dramatic-"

"Hot?"

John laughed again, "Yes, that one too."

"You're lucky he comes to see you. My mum just drops me off, and runs her errands or has a lunch date with the man she thinks I don't know she's having an affair with."

"I'm sorry."

She shrugged her shoulders, "Don't be. She's a mess about all this cancer stuff. I suppose it's better she isn't here."

John looked at her. She couldn't have been more than sixteen. He held out the hand that wasn't connected to his the IV and reached across until he could meet her.

"I'm John." he said.

She smiled, and met his hand with hers. "Thea."

"This is your first time, isn't it?" She asked.

"Yes."

"I was in remission for almost two years. Relapsed after my birthday."

John wanted to say that he was sorry again, because truly he was. It was one thing for him; a man in his forties who had already lived more of a life than he could have imagined for himself to be served with the sentence of cancer, but it was another thing all together for it to happen to a girl like Thea, who hadn't had the chance to do anything other than dream about her place in the world. Not only that, but to have her life given back to her, and then taken away again.

But John didn't tell her that he was sorry, because he knew it wasn't what she wanted to hear. There was no use in anyone being sorry for her; no use in anyone being sorry for him either.

He smiled at her and leaned back into his chair, placing his earbuds back into his ears, and watched from the corner of his eye as Thea did the same.

He had only thirty minutes left, and Sherlock didn't return for them. John impatiently waited for the IV to be taken out, and for some blood to be drawn before he was walked back to his room. He expected to see Sherlock, but it was his sister sitting in one of the visitors chairs instead, one leg crossed over the other, and a finger twirling through her hair.

"Hey." he said, slipping his legs underneath the blanket and laying his head against the pillow of the bed.

"Hey."

Harry's voice was quiet, and she didn't move, aside from taking her finger out of her hair, and planting her feet both firmly on the ground.

"How did it go?" she asked.

John shrugged his shoulders, "It's all rather boring, actually. Was Sherlock here when you got in?"

"He went out to get cigarettes."

"Ahh. Probably weren't supposed to tell me that were you?"

"No, I don't think so."

John laughed, and pulled his blanket his tight around himself.

He slipped in and out of sleep for several hours, opening his eyes for short moments at a time to see different people, hear different voices; like changing scenes of a play. He started thinking about the last play he had been to, long ago when his life still had time for such frivolous things.

It was put on by a local high school, but he couldn't recall the name of it, or what it was really about. He remembered crying at one point, though. Over what, he wasn't sure about now.

There was a pain in his leg that he kept ignoring, too tired to even want to care about it, but it grew deeper and faster until he felt like it was on fire. He woke with a shout, a cracking cry that startled Sherlock out from the ball he curled into on the chair sometime between then and the last time John opened his eyes.

"John, John are you alright?"

He couldn't answer with anything other than another mangled scream. He had no idea where the pain came from or why it wouldn't stop, but it just wouldn't. Sherlock lifted up the blanket, tried to press a gentle hand to John's leg, but John pulled back, and only yelled again from the sharp pain it emitted up his leg, and through his abdomen.

He watched Sherlock's eyes widen, watched a panic flicker through them like he hadn't seen since the day he pulled John from the bonfire, since he watched John say 'I do" to someone else.

"Nurse." John managed to get out, "Get the nurse."

Sherlock scattered away, his socked feet slipping against the tile of the floor as he flung out into the hallway, calling for a nurse. It was less than a minute before  he came back with one, only Sherlock didn't stay. He followed the nurse to the door, and then stayed there; closing it behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is going to be much longer than I thought it would be! At least 3 more chapters-possibly 5. So, we're getting there, (and I already have the very last chapter partially written).
> 
> I can't thank everyone enough who has stuck with it- to be completely honest, I'm not sure I could do it if I was the reader rather than the writer. So, you guys are the best!
> 
> I apologize if this chapter is a little less than great- I was out of town for Thanksgiving, and then when I got home I was hit with a nasty cold I'm just starting to get over, so I know this isn't the best ever. Haha!


	17. Chapter 17

It must have been hours later when John woke up again. Last thing he remembered it was dark, and now the sun was starting to break through the buildings he could see from the window of his room. He took a few seconds to gather himself, to stretch his legs underneath his blankets. He rubbed his eyes, and sat up against the pillow just in time for the door of his room to open.

He hoped that it was Sherlock, but instead it was Dr. Keppler.

"John, how are you feeling this morning?" he asked, picking up the chart at the edge of John's bed and reading over the notes the nurse left last.

"I'm alright. Leg is still a bit stiff."

"Good to hear. Sorry to intrude on you, but I didn't want to make you go all the way upstairs. Say, did you know that your Mr. Holmes is sitting outside in the hall?"

"Oh, is that where he got to?"

There was a small silence as John watched Dr. Keppler place the chart back in the small slot. He rubbed his fingers against the bridge of his nose, and let out a deep sigh, before sitting in a space on the edge of the hospital bed.

"You know, John, my wife died of ovarian cancer several years ago."

"I'm sorry." John said, shifting over to give the man more space.

"She put up a hell of a fight, but in the end, it got the best of her. But, for as knowledgeable as I was about the disease and the treatments and the odds and statistics, I had the hardest time accepting her sickness. It isn't easy to be helpless, especially when you believe you never could be."

A silence fell between them again. John knew that Dr. Keppler was speaking of Sherlock, reminding John of what he already knew, of what he so desperately wanted to fix.

"Anyway," he cut in, ," You're last lab results; I'm afraid there hasn't been much of a change in your counts. We'll start another round of chemo, it's good to keep it on six day cycles."

"And if the chemo doesn't work this time?" John asked.

"Well, I've put you on the list for marrow donation. We'll test your family-"

"The only blood family I have is Harry."

"We'll test any friends who would like to be as well."

"Not a likely they will. Or any stranger on the list - probably not Harry either."

"Odds don't seem to be in your favour, do they?"

"No."

Dr. Keppler put a hand on John's leg, and gave the same soft smile that John had given as a doctor to more people than he could remember. The kind that said, _I don't hold much hope, but I'm going to pretend I do anyway_.

 "But that doesn't mean they aren't." he said, and pushed himself up from the bed.

When he exited, he left the door open just a touch, enough for John to be able to hear Sherlock breathing on the other side of the wall from him.  He took in a deep breath, swung his tired legs out from the bed, and padded along the tile; cold even through the fabric of his socks.

"Have you been out here all night?" John asked, leaning against the doorway and looking down at Sherlock.

Sherlock slowly lifted his head. His eyes were red, and weighed down with black and blue puffy bags. John's breath caught in his throat, and he slid down next to him.

"I don't like this, John." His voice was hoarse, and quiet, and it shook with tired breath between each word.

"I know you don't. I'm not exactly a fan of it either."

"I didn't know what to do. You were in so much pain, and there was nothing I could do."

"You got the nurse. That's all I needed. You did exactly what I needed you to do."

Sherlock picked John's hand up from where it had been idly sitting on top of his knee. He splayed John's fingers against his palm, and traced their shape with the fingers of his free hand.

"Did you hear what Dr.Kepplersaid, then?"

"I can't fix you." Sherlock said to him in answer.

John shook his head, "Not this time."

"What if they can't either?"

"Then, I guess-"

"You die."

John looked away from where he had been watching Sherlock's fingers, and looked at his face. Sherlock's eyes were still cast downward, refusing to meet with John's gaze.

"Sherlock? I love you. Do you understand me?"

Sherlock grabbed John's face, and brought their mouths together in a desperate kiss.  They held on tight to one another, grasping at hair and skin, ignoring the nurses and doctors that strolled past them.

"I miss this." John dropped his chin down on Sherlock's shoulder and whispered into it. "We should have had more sex. All day; everyday."

Sherlock laughed, "Is that you're one regret; not shagging me enough?"

"No. I regret nothing about you and me."

Sherlock lifted John's head away, and held him in his gaze, "Are you sure about that? There's nothing you would change; nothing you wish I could have given you, but didn't?"

"Nothing, Sherlock. "

He leaned in and kissed Sherlock once again before trying to push himself up from the floor, but the strength in his legs kept him grounded against the tile. He laughed, but he wasn't amused. He was tired, and he was angry. John didn't know he could be that angry for so long.

Sherlock hopped to his feet, as graceful as ever, and held out his hand for John to grasp onto. John leaned on him for support back into the room, and back into the bed where Sherlock covered him, and placed a kiss on his forehead.

"Lestrade text me earlier this morning. Suicide, well, murder looked to be suicide; he's having a hard time with it." Sherlock said, smoothing out the edges of the blanket around John's feet.

"And you're going to help him with it?"

"I told him no cases while you're sick."

"And he hasn't bothered you until today. If Lestrade needs your help, go."

"But-"

"Sherlock, I'm telling you to go. I'm not going to die today."

"Do you promise?"

John pulled on the fabric of Sherlock's shirt, bringing him close enough that their heads could fall together.

"I promise." he whispered, and left a gentle kiss on Sherlock's lips.

 

~*~

"No boyfriend today?"

John looked away from his magazine to see Thea settling into the seat next to him, digging her book from her bag as the nurse hooked up her IV.

John folded up the magazine, and smiled at her.

"Not today." he answered.

"Pity."

"Oh, not really. He was driving me mad, himself as well."

"Hospitals are maddening, aren't they?"

"It's the white walls. It's meant to feel sterile and safe, but it ends up feeling cold and inhospitable, so they trim everything with that mint and that salmon, and that only makes things worse. Nearly drove me over the bend when I was still working in hospital."

"You're a doctor?

"I am."

"Does that make it worse; knowing what's happening?"

"I don't know the specifics, but I know enough, and yes, sometimes that makes things worse."

It fell silent between the two of them.

"I'm being admitted today. My mum is filling out papers in my room."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Thea shrugged her shoulders, and twisted the closed binding of her book. She was a lot like John; strong, maybe too strong for her own good. But it was the kind of strength that came from fear - too afraid to say something hurts, to admit their sad or scared. Because if they did, someone would be by their side, holding their hand, making them feel less than who they are.

They didn't speak anymore after that. There wasn't anything left to say. Thea sat, mumbling the daily affirmations in her book, and John listened.

There was a time in his life when John considered himself religious, if only because he didn't know enough not to be. After his parents died, he thought he might find solace in his faith, only to find that he never had any to begin with.

So, while there was no comfort for him in God, there was comfort in the poetry that came from between Thea's lips.

 _Clouds do not drift in the wrong direction,_  
Nor do snowflakes fall in the wrong place.  
A fish can thrash against the current   
And make no progress;  
Or it can do nothing, and float for miles.  
When you let go of the handrail of life,  
No wrongs can befall you.  
If you open your mind to the Dao,  
You can never die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter update, finally huh?!?  
> The poem at the end of this is actually NOT from the Tao de Cheng, but a poem I found elsewhere - it just seemed to fit better than anything I came across in the other, or in my Daily Tao. And no, I am not Taoist, but I took a class on Eastern religions once, and kept the book around and like reading it from time to time :)  
> Source for the poem in below.
> 
> http://www.taoism.net/supplement/taopoems.htm


	18. Chapter 18

_I had this hope that when I came home, I would be better. I would sit in my chair, and you would sit in yours, and it would be as though the last months were a terrible nightmare. You would sulk about being bored, I would offer the use of my gun, and we would laugh, and settle on making love in the middle of the sitting room. Lestrade would call soon after with a case, and a spark would light in your eyes- that spark that I fell in love with, that spark that I will follow anywhere._

_I am home, but I will never be better than this. I watched death come to me and then go more times than most people have the chance to in their lifetime, but this is the last time. It will come, and I will go with it._

_The pain is mostly unbearable; my body shutting itself down, calling defeat. But you've proven to be a good nurse, and the medication, the kind you're sent with 'to make him comfortable' isn't half bad either._

_People have come round to say goodbye to me; Lestrade, Molly, a few Army mates; Sarah. Of course no one has outright said the words. Your brother has come by a few times with no other reason than to make sure you're alright. You hate him for it, but I'm grateful. He'll take care of you Sherlock, when I'm gone._

_Mrs. Hudson is up and down with biscuits and soup, and making tea that neither of us are touching. And Harry hasn't left in days. It's driving you crazy, I know._

_You've started to read about the Cosmos, and you tell me that when I die I'll turn back into stardust, and float away. You admit to me that this is your belief in heaven. There is no God, no magical land up in the clouds, but there is the universe. And as we are all made of the remnant of stars, so we will go back to them when are finished on the Earth._

_I smile, because this is something I never knew about you, and I reach out to take your hand. It's so warm against mine, and I bring it up against the skin of my sunken cheeks to steal away the heat._

_I tell you that it would be lovely to spend eternity in the sky, but that when I die, my star dust is going to combine with yours deep within your bones, and you'll carry the remains of my soul with you until your time is over and we can join the universe as one._

_There was a night that I felt like praying for the first time since I was eleven years old. Well, that's a lie now isn't it? I did ask God to let me live when I was shot, and then I asked him again to bring you back. I guess he listened to me on that one. But, I passed on the praying this time around, and dug in the back of our wardrobe for that old record player you have, and my records. Blue Oyster Cult was always much more a religious experience than any Sunday in church or any conversation with God._

_You've just come into the bedroom from a hushed conversation with Harry in the kitchen. Your face is red, and I can see the chaos in your curls from where your fingers were gripping it like wildfire. But I say nothing. While there are some things that shouldn't go unsaid right now, there are other things that should be left alone._

_You're shaking your head at my music, laughing a bit, and I'm so glad to see your smile. You bend over to check my pulse, take my temperature; all the things you've been doing so diligently._

_"Sherlock?" I say, grabbing your wrist as it leaves my forehead. "Will you do something for me?"_

_"Anything."_

_As if I would have expected another answer from you._

_"Undress."_

_"What?"_

_My question has caught you by surprise, and you pull away from my grip to reach to the bedside table where my collection of prescriptions sit. You came in to check on me, to make sure I took my medicine. In the last few days that seems to be all that you've been doing. You argue with my sister, you read, and you take care of me._

_I'm not angry with you; I know that you have been having a hard time with this since the beginning, and the few breakdowns you've allowed me to see have been a gift, because you're back to handling it all in your most 'Sherlock' of ways._

_"I want to see you."_

_Your surprise wanes, and your fingers find the smooth surface of your buttons._

_The lines of your body are so long, and so lean. and I'm almost ashamed at how hungry my eyes must look as I follow the path of your hands down your chest, to your thighs, and along your legs to your feet, and back again when you shimmy from your pants._

_You've always been the most beautiful creature I've ever seen. I remember the day I met you. Everything about it was so surreal from running into Mike at the park, to walking into Bart's for the first time in years -- and then there was you. Bathed in fluorescent light, swathed in black. I should have been angry at all you knew, but I was intrigued by you, rather. I wanted to know more. So if you've ever wondered why I so readily moved into Baker Street it wasn't the necessity of the situation, but the want of you._

_I was always terrified to want you, but I wanted you anyway._

_You walk closer, and I reach out my hand and press it against your stomach. You're so warm, so real, and so alive._

_"I love you, Sherlock Holmes."_

_"I love you too, John Watson."_

_And as you unscrew the caps to my pills, place them in my hands and watch me swallow, it's as if you know, like you've always known everything, that those will be the last words we say to one another. Because as soon as you kiss the top of my head, and I watch your walk across the room into the loo, I am going to lay my head against the pillow and lay down. I will try to wait for you to come back, to slip into your pyjamas and underneath the covers with me one last time, but I'm just so..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who followed this, and stuck with it. I hope you recover quickly, and I promise no more sad stories from me! 
> 
> Thank you all again so much!

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me here for writing updates and all things Sherlock/Benedict/Martin/Johnlock/And lots of other stuff!  
> http://mktellstales.tumblr.com/  
>  
> 
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> http://read-sherlock.tumblr.com/


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